The Dreamer
Walter De La Mare
The woods were still. No breath of air
Stirred in leaf or brake.
Cold hung the rose, unearthly fair;
The nightingale, awake,
In rusted coverts of the may
Shook out his bosom's down;
Alone, upon her starry way,
The moon, to fulness grown,
Moved, shining, through her misty meads;
And, roofless from the dew,
Knelt way-worn Love, with idle beads,
And dreamed of you.
