Often I am awaked from sleep to see —
Framed like a picture by the dark of night —
The sweep of space above a frozen height,
Or, lifting from a skyline, one dead tree.
Again it is the full tide leaping free
Over black rocks, or breaking blue and white.
Again, a rill that in leaf-filtered light,
With words of rustling water, calls to me.

These are not dreams of beauty I have known,
Nor mine the interest remembrance brings;
Only my fancy knows the tides' deep tone,
Only my longing seeks the tangled springs...
And yet they make a clearer, wilder call
Than if a fond remembering were all.