I had returned from dreaming—
When there came the look of you
And I could not tell after that,
And the sound of you
And I could not tell,
And at last the touch of you
And I could tell then less than ever,
Though I silvered and fell
As at the very mountain-brim
Of dream.

For how could the motion of a shadow in a field
Be a person?
Or the flash of an oriole-wing
Be a smile?
Or the turn of a leaf on a stream
Be a hand?
Or a bright breath of sun
Be lips?

I can reach out and out—and nothing will be there …
None of these things are true.
All of them are dreams,
There are neither streams
Nor leaves nor orioles nor you.