Dreaming

The moan of a wintry soul      Melted into a summer song,     And the words, like the wavelet's roll,      Moved murmuringly along.     And the song flowed far and away,      Like the voice of a half-sleeping rill --     Each wave of it lit by a ray --      But the sound was so soft and so still,     And the tone was so gentle and low,      None heard the song till it had passed;     Till the echo that followed its flow      Came dreamingly back from the past.     'Twas too late! -- a song never returns      That passes our pathway unheard;     As dust lying dreaming in urns      Is the song lying dead in a word.     For the birds of the skies have a nest,      And the winds have a home where they sleep,     And songs, like our souls, need a rest,      Where they murmur the while we may weep.          *    *    *    *    *     But songs -- like the birds o'er the foam,      Where the storm wind is beating their breast,     Fly shoreward -- and oft find a home      In the shelter of words where they rest.