The Dreaming Things

Oh, ye winged folk, art thou
Sweet dreaming of my brothers taking wing?
Ye butterflies of rainbow cloth,
Art thou the fleeing ghosts of some bright fancy?
Ye mists that hang the hills, art thou the spirit
Of the Night still clinging to the earth?
Ye banked clouds rising high
At the breast of yon peaked way, art thou
Some mighty dream dreampt by some lowly one?
Oh ye dusts that sweep the paths, are
Thy atoms even dreams of the hosts that trod thee?
Oh, ye scents of the garden's way,
Art thou the sweetness of the barren ones?
The dreaming of the reaching ones,
Who dream but empty dreaming?
Ah me, I hope 'tis true!
For look ye then on such a land,
Built by the dreaming to winged, speeding things
That make new days within the old.