The poem
Frail Travellers, deftly flickering over the flowers; O living flowers against the heedless blue Of summer days, what sends them dancing through This fiery-blossom'd revel of the hours?
Theirs are the musing silences between The enraptured crying of shrill birds that make Heaven in the wood while summer dawns awake; And theirs the faintest winds that hush the green.
And they are as my soul that wings its way Out of the starlit dimness into morn: And they are as my tremulous being-born To know but this, the phantom glare of day.