Swiftly the dews of the gloaming are falling:
Faintly the bugles of Dreamland are calling.
O hearken, my darling, the elf-flutes are blowing,
The shining-eyed folk from the hillside are flowing,
I’ the moonshine the wild-apple blossoms are
And louder and louder where the white dews are
The far-away bugles of Dreamland are calling.
O what are the bugles of Dreamland calling
There where the dews of the gloaming are falling?
Come away from the weary old world of tears,
Come away, come away to where one never hears
The slow weary drip of the slow weary years,
But peace and deep rest till the white dews are
And the blithe bugle laughters through Dreamland
Then bugle for us, where the cool dews are falling,
O bugle for us, wild elf-flutes now calling–
For Heart’s-love and I are too weary to wait
For the dim drowsy whisper that cometh too late,
The dim muffled whisper of blind empty fate–
O the world’s well lost now the dream-dews are
And the bugles of Dreamland about us are calling.