We are the oldest people, who have watched the world change.Sun-glow and star pass by us, and these are no longer strange;Nor is it strange when the moonrise, with delicate pointed hands,Gathers our thoughts like blossoms, and binds them with crystal bands.
We are the folk of twilight. The ways of our going are clearAs the little lattice of fire traced on the frosty mere;Silver the locks of our hair, but deep are our hidden eyesAs the black tarn in the crags, where a quivering water lies.
We are the wings of a dream that brushed you in sleep, and was gone,The silver fruits of the isle you have hungered to look upon;We are the thought of your heart, and the shadowy shrillGhost of challenge that rises from the throat of the daffodil.
