Hidden, the stars of the Heavens,
Far above the Dreaming Wood
Of Winterlock; by veil of cloud
Drifting silver over the forest at night -
Silent ships on dark, tempered seas
Are these that by moon and starlight raid;
That glide by night, to memory, to light
Upon tomorrow,
All having sailed
Over Winterlock Glade.
Below, dipped in the river’s lip,
All gnarled in root and garland bough,
Weeps the Dreaming Willow, abloom
With the dreams of men, to whom it blows
On nightly winds, hidden in blooms
that glimmer on darkness, light as stars,
Sylvan dreams, curling and gliding
From bough to the wave,
To men far distant
From the Winterlock Glade.
Pale, the glow of the blossom
That float from Willow to the wind,
Soft as a drift of virgin snow
As they glide to the water’s skin;
Where, as might a pussy willow,
They whirl, and spin, and tilt on the wave,
Turning in silence to a world of men
As a memory,
Or a messenger
Of the Winterlock Glade.
Away, far from the silent Wood,
Where dreamers collect the blossoms
Of the bough, the Dawn will soon break,
And rouse all dreamers in a golden wake.
Then, as the darkness sinks in the
Waves of a golden morn, the forest
Will shimmer, the river will quiver, and
The Willow will fade -
For Dawn’s the Keeper
Of the Winterlock Glade.