Along your starry ways
I used to rove;
you were my earliest love
in boyhood days.

Over the silvern pool
bending quietly,
O most despised tree,
yet loveliest of all,

you'd toss a flower down
anon, as a woman might
to her lover in the night
a rose have thrown.

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Often when I was tired,
seeking for rest,
under your dark breast
I'd sink and find quiet.

And in your skies there were
star-flowers, white and soft,
and little winds would waft
your vague scent on the air.

And I would lie there curled
happily for hours,
then rise, shake off your flowers,
and creep back to the world.