One day, when summer suns were kind,
I walked within my soul's domain,
Where inner summer held its reign,
And heard a voice, like some small wind
That wakes a breath, then sleeps again.

It said: 'I come as messenger
From garths of dream whose flowers blow
Where clouds go by and waters flow
Secret from thee; and breezes stir
Whose birth or death thou dost not know.

If thou wouldst have their faery blooms,
Send forth a thought to pluck them there
Most speedily: for, being more fair
Than earthly flow'rs, and with perfumes
No sun-conceived blossoms hear,

Fleeter than these, their hues are lost,
Their fragrance as a spirit fled.'
Then, like a wind, the voice was dead.
In other flow'rs of dream engrossed,
I left those dreams unharvested;

Until, bethinking me of them,
I sent a thought in bloomless hours:
Returning soon, it said, 'The flow'rs
Are vanished from each withered stem -
A harvest of the winds and show'rs.'