Wilfrid Wilson Gibson (1878–1962)

IF once I could gather in song

A flower from my garden of dreams—

The dew from its petals unshaken,

When starry and bright they awaken—

All men to the wonder would throng.

Though ever at dawning I go

By the marge of the life-giving streams

That, shadow’d by blossoms upspringing,

Remember the hills in their singing,

The fells of their birth in their flow;

Or early or late though I fare

To gather my garden of dreams

For the barren, forsaken and lonely;

I bring from the shadow-world only

Pale blossoms that perish in air.