My Gift Would Find Thee Fast Asleep, And Arise A Dream In Thee; A Violet Sky O'Er The Roll And Sweep Of A Purple And Pallid Sea; And A Crescent Moon From My Sky Should Creep In The Golden Dream To Thee. Thou Shouldst Lay Thee Down, And Sadly List To The Wail Of Our Cold Birth-Time; And Build Thee A Temple, Glory-Kissed, In The Heart Of The Sunny Clime; Its Columns Should Rise In A Music-Mist, And Its Roofs In A Spirit-Rhyme. Its Pillars The Solemn Hills Should Bind 'Neath Arches Of Starry Deeps; Its Floor The Earth All Veined And Lined; Its Organ The Ocean-Sweeps; And, Swung In The Hands Of The Grey-Robed Wind, Its Censers The Blossom-Heaps. And 'Tis Almost Done; For In This My Rhyme, Thanks To Thy Mirror-Soul, Thou Wilt See The Mountains, And Hear The Chime Of The Waters After The Roll; And The Stars Of My Sky Thy Sky Will Climb, And With Heaven Roof In The Whole.