Have you found me, at last, O my Dream？ Seven aeons ago You died and I buried you deep under forests of snow. Why have you come hither？ Who bade you awake from your sleep And track me beyond the cerulean foam¹ of the deep？

    Would you tear from my lintels these sacred green garlands of leaves？ Would you scare the white, nested, wild pigeons of joy from my eaves？ Would you touch and defile² with dead fingers the robes of my priest？ Would you weave your dim moan with the chantings of love at my feast？

    Go back to your grave, O my Dream, under forests of snow, Where a heart-riven child hid you once, seven aeons ago. Who bade you arise from your darkness？ I bid you depart！ Profane³ not the shrines⁴ I have raised in the clefts⁵ of my heart.