Dreamland

Swiftly the dews of the gloaming are falling: 

Faintly the bugles of Dreamland are calling. 

O hearken, my darling, the elf-flutes are blowing, 

The shining-eyed folk from the hillside are flowing, 

I’ the moonshine the wild-apple blossoms are snowing, 

And louder and louder where the white dews are falling 

The far-away bugles of Dreamland are calling.

O what are the bugles of Dreamland calling 

There where the dews of the gloaming are falling? 

Come away from the weary old world of tears,  

Come away, come away to where one never hears 

The slow weary drip of the slow weary years,  

But peace and deep rest till the white dews are falling 

And the blithe bugle laughters through Dreamland are calling.

Then bugle for us, where the cool dews are falling, 

O bugle for us, wild elf-flutes now calling– 

For Heart’s-love and I are too weary to wait 

For the dim drowsy whisper that cometh too late, 

The dim muffled whisper of blind empty fate– 

O the world’s well lost now the dream-dews are falling, 

And the bugles of Dreamland about us are calling.

Fiona McLeod