Through the window I behold
the shape of childlike chimes
with stolen glances at heavens fold
there´s dreams of grassy climes
and clouds of white
in a sky of height

Over purling rills
through plains of grass
along woodlands of haze
under rippling cascades

Where it writes a poem of words -
not of matters, nor of sights
- but of dreams faraway.
And an unwritten end
for the cause of good

In sombre darkness the poem is concealed
but yet sparkling, and in dreams revealed

The babe is thou
The babe am I
And its dreams we share