THE WITHERING OF THE BOUGHS
 
 I CRIED when the moon was mutmuring to the birds:
 "Let peewit call and curlew cry where they will,
 I long for your merry and tender and pitiful words,
 For the roads are unending, and there is no place to my mind."
 The honey-pale moon lay low on the sleepy hill,
 And I fell asleep upon lonely Echtge of streams.
 No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind;
 The boughs have withered because I have told them my, dreams.
 I know of the leafy paths that the witches take
 Who come with their crowns of pearl and their spindles of wool,
 And their secret smile, out of the depths of the lake;
 I know where a dim moon drifts, where the Danaan kind
 Wind and unwind their dances when the light grows cool
 On the island lawns, their feet where the pale foam gleams.
 No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind;
 The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams.
 I know of the sleepy country, where swans fly round
 Coupled with golden chains, and sing as they fly.
 A king and a queen are wandering there, and the sound
 Has made them so happy and hopeless, so deaf and so blind
 With wisdom, they wander till all the years have gone by;
 I know, and the curlew and peewit on Echtge of streams.
 No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind;
 The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams.