When the world is fast asleep,

Along the midnight skies

As though it were a wandering cloud

The ghostly dream-ship flies.

A specter of the endless reach,

A wraith among the stars,

With endless songs and poems to teach

All stored in magic jars.

An angel stands at the dreamship's helm

And an angel stands at the prow,

And an angel stands at the dreamship's side

With a rue-wreath on her brow.

And, guarded by the angels here,

A single sage commands—

An elder, bent and worn of soul,

With magic in his hands.

The other angels, silver-crowned,

Pilot and helmsman are,

And the angel with the wreath of rue

Tosseth the dreams afar.

The dreams, they fall on rich and poor,

They fall on young and old,

And some are dreams of poverty,

And some are dreams of gold.

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