THE down on the uncaught wing,
The dream that will not abide,
Sheep-bells softly a-ring
In fields that horizons hide,
The glow of remembered dawns,
Dew on the spider’s snare,
Light late on old lawns
Out of the fading air,
The mystery lurking just
On the other sides of trees,
Tales from books that are dust
Blown by on the breeze;
All that our ordered days
Fail to bring to our door,
Elves of the wood, and fays
Of the moonlight out on the moor;
Of these is poetry wrought,
And, when history’s over,
These by hearts shall be sought,
As bees yearn to the clover.