I met at eve the Prince of sleep,
His was a still and lovely face;
He wander'd through a valley steep,
Lovely in a lonely place.

His garb was grey of lavender,
About his head a poppy wreath
Burned like dim coals,
And everywhere 
The air was sweeter for his breath.

His twilight feet no sandals wore,
His eyes shone faint in their own flame,
Fair moths that gloomed his steps before
Seemed letters of his lovely name.

His house is in the mountain ways,
A phantom house of misty walls,
Whose golden flocks at evening graze,
And witch the moon with muffled calls.

Upwelling from his shadowy springs
Sweet waters shake a trembling sound,
There flit the hoot owl's silent wings,
There hath his web the silk worm wound.

Dark in his pools clear visions lurk,
And rosy, as with morning buds,
Along his dales of broom and birk
Dreams haunt his solitary woods.