'Are you not listening?
To the rhythm
Of those leaves falling
Like a noon day dream?
Are you not listening?
To the rhythm which I hold
Walking, laughing, singing,
Sleeping and waking?'
He asked Her one day,
As lips his quavered to say
All those simple candid things,
For dipped he was in the poetic breeze,
Sweeping as it was, him, away away from
Real scapes, real plains,
He asked Her oneday,
Thinking of a long shaded wintry lane,
Where he had walked once holding songs,
Where he had walked one whole winter long,
'Yes I do'
Much like an afflicted bird,
And opened she her wonderous wings
Only to lift him to the origin of dreams.