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 Of her white arms; and you saw through A rent in the old tent, a patch of sky With one dim star. She flew, but not so high— And then she did not fly; She stood in the bright moonlight at the door Of a strange room, she threw her slippers on the floor— Again, again You heard the patter of the rain, The starving rain—it was this Thing, Summer was this, the gold mist in your eyes;— Oh God! it dies, But after death—, To-night the splendour and the sting Blows back and catches at your breath, The smell of beasts, the smell of dust, the scent of all the roses in the world, the sea, the Spring, The beat of drums, the pad of hoofs, music, the dream, the dream, the Enchanted Thing!

At first you scarcely saw her face, You knew the maddening feet were there, What called was that half-hidden, white unrest To which now and then she pressed Her finger tips; but as she slackened pace And turned and looked at you it grew quite bare: There was not anything you did not dare:— Like trumpeters the hours passed until the last day of the Fair.

In the Place d'Armes all afternoon The building birds had sung "Soon, soon," The shuttered streets slept sound that night, It was full moon: The path into the wood was almost white, The trees were very still and seemed to stare: Not far before your soul the Dream flits on, But when you touch it, it is gone And quite alone your soul stands there.