Dear Wanderer— The sky is gray,
With flecks of blue The clouds rush over.
A bird is singing Far away,
And butterflies Taste of the clover.
Under the trees My hammock swings,
And a brave breeze— The restless rover— Flutters the leaves And stirs the grasses And, whispering riddles,
Lightly passes.
Day after day My friend and I Climb up the hills And search the valleys;
Dip in the brook That ripples by And through clear pools Serenely dallies.
All green and gold,
All song and sweetness,
The old earth is For summer's pleasure;
Who kisses and goes,
Whose love is fleetness,
Who gives but a season But gives without measure.
Away with time!— His wand I capture,
He rules no more For this brief minute.
The years are gone— Once more the rapture,
The night of stars With the secret in it.
Ah, if you were here Should I grant,
I wonder,
The whole round
For a birthday token—How today, tomorrow,
Together, asunder,
We are—no, hush!—It is best unspoken.
Oh, the truest truth—No words dare say it!
It hides in the
From the poor tongue's treason;
And the deepest joy—We may never pray it.
It comes and
With nor rule nor reason.
Look up!—the
Through the clouds' gray portal!
And see—white
In the blue below it!
Behold the dream,
Wide-winged, immortal!
Did I hear your voice?
You are here—I know it!
