I am, you anxious one. Do you not hear me
rush to claim you with each eager sense?
Now my feelings have found wings, and, circling,
whitely fly about your countenance,
Here my spirit in its dress of stillness
stands before you-oh, do you not see?
In your glance does not my Maytime prayer
grow to ripeness as upon a tree?
Dreamer, it is I who am your dream,
But would you awake, I am your will,
and master of all splendor, and I grow
to a sphere, like stars poised high and still,
with time's singular city stretched below.