a silver note, a piercing thread,

did draw me from my drowsy bed.

across the veil of sleep it sped,

and coiled around my dreaming head.

୨୧

i stirred within my linen nest,

where moonbeam and the shadow rest,

and laid my nightcap on my breast,

to seek the singer, eastward pressed.

୨୧

there, on the bough of gnarled yew,

a feathered robin met my view,

his breast a droplet of night's dew,

his eye a bead of jet he threw.

୨୧

he sang not of the coming morn,

nor of the rose upon the thorn,

but of a world, both deep and worn,

where ancient, secret truths are born.

୨୧

and now the sun begins his climb,

but i am of a truer clime;

that wild, small chanteur, steeped in time,

has stolen me from sleep and rhyme.

୨୧