Sweet was my childish life to me
Like the first spring dream of a hawthorn tree.
Every night an ancient crone
Crooked, silver-flowered as a thorn,
Came as quietly as the moon
Through the frosty night with her old lanthorn
And put my childish self to bed
With all the dreams that nest in my head.
And the moon's shadows were silvery seen
As hawthorn blossoms, perfumed flowers,
The glamour of beauty that never has been,
With petals falling through the night hours
And as the old crone spoke to me
Night seemed a flowering Chinese wave
Which bore me to each cloudy cave
Where there are mysteries none may see
In far Thibet and Persia words
Grow into lands unknown where birds
Are singing in an unknown tongue
Of loveliness forever young.