Dreams

My castle is not built in Spain,
But in a garden on a hill,
Where flowers bloom with myriad hues
And where the moon shines white and still
Bathing the blossoms in pale light.
Beneath a bridge silvers a rill,
Which whispers softly to the trees,
That breathes the secrets they may hear
Unto the sighing nomad breeze,
Which sings a nocturne to the sky
And passes by.
Ah! to linger at the close of day
And breathe the perfume of the rose:
To hear the lullaby of birds:
To watch the mauve of evening fade
To grey.

Anon the ev'ning star
Shines out with yellow gleam when chime
Saint Michael's bells for evensong.
The air is sweet with scent of stocks,
And, 'gainst the wall, tall holly-hocks
Splash crimson o'er a bed of blue.
So, when the day has journeyed quite
Across our world and cobalt night
Ascends the sky, then in a room
Where silence reigns midst mellow light
Of shaded lamp, there shall we dwell
Just you and I, alone with love
And harmony.

—Heni Anata.