I found in dreams a place of wind and flowers,
⁠Full of sweet trees and colour of glad grass,
⁠In midst whereof there was
A lady clothed like summer with sweet hours.
Her beauty, fervent as a fiery moon,
⁠Made my blood burn and swoon
⁠Like a flame rained upon.
Sorrow had filled her shaken eyelids’ blue,
And her mouth’s sad red heavy rose all through
⁠Seemed sad with glad things gone.

She held a little cithern by the strings,
⁠Shaped heartwise, strung with subtle-coloured hair
⁠Of some dead lute-player
That in dead years had done delicious things.