All that long April morning while you slept,

The poplar trees were dripping in the rain.

The room's cool indoor darkness kindly kept

The quick dreams hurrying through your brain.

Lying so late asleep, you could not say

When the slow rainy wind began to stir,

Or when I rose in the dark and went away,

Or what the last three words I whispered were.

The flight of stumbling dream broke, and stopped going.

You half sat up in bed to blink and listen.

You heard, like me, the wind in grey skies blowing.

You saw the three tall poplars drip and glisten.

Far on the rutted road when you awoke,

I heard, I heard the shattered words you spoke.