Page:Collected poems vol 2 de la mare.djvu/102

 MET at eve the Prince of Sleep,
 * His was a still and lovely face,

He wandered through a valley steep,
 * Lovely in a lonely place.

His garb was grey of lavender,
 * About his brows a poppy-wreath

Burned like dim coals, and everywhere
 * The air was sweeter for his breath.

His twilight feet no sandals wore,
 * His eyes shone faint in their own flame,

Fair moths that gloomed his steps before
 * Seemed letters of his lovely name.

His house is in the mountain ways,
 * A phantom house of misty walls,

Whose golden flocks at evening graze,
 * And witch the moon with muffled calls.

Upwelling from his shadowy springs
 * Sweet waters shake a trembling sound,

There flit the hoot-owl's silent wings,
 * There hath his web the silkworm wound.