A Meeting

I hear a sound like piping and like sails In silken talk with wind and like the speech Of someone quiet in the blue of dawn Upon a quiet beach.

I see a light as when the last star Flowers faintly in the ashen morning sky And long wings appear and disappear, Wheeling by.

I think of moons forgotten with their tides; I think of all the red of east and west; I hear the secret stir of nameless dead Conferring in my breast.

You make me long for colour and for song And for old words on lips I did not know. You make me dream of all I learned to dream How long ago.