In Clouds

Goodnight, darling angel of mine heart o'er frets, But I stand idly, not but silhouettes-- Dream of such that in the eye, no farther the heart might let them by. On this bed-- this bed of not living sound-- lay peaced by imagination gathers round, Where touch'd thine skin is but known. No wander'd breath shown-- Unto light of thy star's sound keep, Mine love lay under sleep.