The Withering of the Boughs by W.B. Yeats

I cried when the moon was murmuring to the birds, / 'Let peewit call and curlew cry where they will, / I long for your merry and tender and pitiful words, / For the roads are unending and there is no place to my mind. ' / The honey-pale moon lay low on the sleepy hill / And I fell asleep upon lonely Echtge of streams; / No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind, / The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams.

I know of the leafy paths that the witches take, / Who come with their crowns of pearl and their spindles of wool, / And their secret smile, out of the depths of the lake; / And of apple islands where the Danaan kind / Wind and unwind their dances when the light grows cool / On the island lawns, their feet where the pale foam gleams; / No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind, / The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams.