Murmuring Moon

"...I cried when the moon was murmuring to the birds,

‘Let peewit call and curlew cry where they will,

I long for your merry and tender and pitiful words,

For the roads are unending and there is no place to my mind.’

The honey-pale moon lay low on the sleepy hill

And I fell asleep upon lonely Echtge of streams;

No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind,

The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams..."

-W.B. Yeats, The Withering of the Boughs