On yonder hillside, white with tombs, A palm tree's fan-like foliage blooms; There, in the gloaming flock the doves, To rest their wings and coo their loves. At dawn the palm tree they forsake, Like beads that from a necklace break, And scatter airily in flight, Upon some distant roof to light. My soul doth, like that palm, receive White dreams as visitors, at eve: They drop from heaven — a while they stay— But vanish at the break of day. |