The moan of a wintry soul
Melted into a summer song,
And the words, like the wavelet’s roll,
Moved murmuringly along.
And the song flowed far and away,
Like the voice of a half-sleeping rill –
Each wave of it lit by a ray –
But the sound was so soft and so still,
And the tone was so gentle and low,
None heard the song till it had passed;
Till the echo that followed its flow
Came dreamingly back from the past.
from “Dreaming” by Abram Joseph Ryan 1839-1886