Sometimes in waking dreams divine, Wandering, my spirit meets with thine, And while, made dumb with ecstacy, I pause in a delighted trance, Thine, like a squirrel caught at play, Just gives one startled look askance, And darteth suddenly away, Swifter than a phosphor glance At night upon the lonely sea, Wayward-souled Callirhöe. Sometimes, in mockery of care, Thy playful thought will never rest, Darting about, now here, now there, Like sun-beams on a river’s breast, Shifting with each breath of air, By its very unrest fair. As a bright and summer stream, Seen in childhood’s happy dream, Singing nightly, singing daily, Trifling with each blade of grass That breaks his ripples as they pass, And going on its errand gaily, Singing with the self-same leap Wherewith it merges in the deep. So shall thy spirit glide along, Breaking, when troubled, into song, And leave an echo floating by When thou art gone forth utterly. Seeming-cheerful souls there be, That flutter with a living sound As dry leaves rustle on the ground; But they are sorrowful to me, Because they make me think of thee, My bird-like, wild Callirhöe! Thy mirth is like the flickering ray Forthshooting from the steadfast light Of a star, which through the night Moves glorious on its way, With a sense of moveless might. Thine inner soul flows calm forever; Dark and calm without a sound, Like that strange and trackless river That rolls its waters underground. Early and late at thy soul’s gate Sits Chastity in maiden wise, No thought unchallenged, small or great, Goes thence into thine eyes; Nought evil can that warder win, To pass without or enter in. Before thy pure eyes guilt doth shrink, Meanness doth blush and hide its head, Down through the soul their light will sink, And cannot be extinguished. Far up on poiséd wing Thou floatest, far from all debate, Thine inspirations are too great To tarry questioning; No murmurs of our earthly air, God’s voice alone can reach thee there; Downlooking on the stream of Fate, So high thou sweepest in thy flight, Thou knowest not of pride or hate, But gazing from thy lark-like height, Forth o’er the waters of To be, The first gleam of Truth’s morning light Round thy broad forehead floweth bright, My Pallas-like Callirhöe. Thy mouth is Wisdom’s gate, wherefrom, As from the Delphic cave, Great sayings constantly do come, Wave melting into wave; Rich as the shower of Danäe, Rains down thy golden speech; My soul sits waiting silently, When eye or tongue sends thought to me, To comfort or to teach.