and what were roses. Perfume? for i do
forget… or mere Music mounting unsurely
twilight

      but here were something more maturely
childish, more beautiful almost than you.

Yet if not flower, tell me softly who
be these haunters of dreams always demurely
half smiling from cool faces, moving purely
with muted steps, yet somewhat proudly too—

are they not ladies, ladies of my dreams
justly touching roses their fingers whitely
live by?
      or better,
      queens, queens laughing lightly
crowned with far colors,

      thinking very much
of nothing and whom dawn loves most to touch

wishing by willows, bending upon streams?