Bubble, bubble, flows the stream

She throws a kiss, and bids me run In whispers sweet as roses’ breath; I know I can not win the race, And at the end, I know, is death.

When Spring is old, and dewy winds Blow from the south, with odors sweet, I see my love, in shadowy groves, Speed down dark aisles on shining feet.

The little bee returns with evening's gloom, To join her comrades in the braided hive, Where, housed beside their mighty honey-comb, They dream their polity shall long survive.

Old scenes to visit, and old dreams to dream, Shall not to us a task of labour seem.

For milkmaids and queens and gipsy-princesses Dream and kiss blindfold or starve upon guesses.

They saw a Dream of Loveliness descending from the train.