The Forgetful People
Be still, be still, Folk of the Hill,
And cry not through our dreams,
For years have had of us their will,
And only firelight streams
Upon our hands that are empty,
And we forget our dreams.
Shade, sun, and wind to you are kind,
But we have chosen the fire
To flicker and fade in eyes half blind,
And no more dear desire
There is in our souls grown shrivelled
That sleep beside the fire.
We fain would keep an endless sleep,
For naught is left to dream;
We would not hear you when you weep
Though sweet your voices seem.
We are more sad than dreams are
Forgetting how to dream.