The withering of the boughs Peter Warlock

I cried when the moon was murmuring to the birds
"Let peewit call and curlew cry where they will
I long for your merry and tender and pitiful words
For the roads are unending, and there is no place to my mind."
The honey-pale moon lay low on the sleepy hill
And I fell asleep upon lonely Echtge of streams
No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind;
The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams

I know of the leafy paths the witches take
Who come with their crowns of pearl and their spindles of wool
And their secret smile, out of the depths of the lake;
I know where a dim moon drifts, where the Danaan kind
Wind and unwind their dances when the light grows cool
On the island lawns, their feet where the pale foam gleams
No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind;
The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams

I know of the sleepy country, where swans fly round
Coupled with golden chains, and sing as they fly
A king and a queen are wandering there, and the sound
Has made them so happy and hopeless, so deaf and so blind
With wisdom, they wander till all the years have gone by;
I know. and the curlew and peewit on Echtge of streams
No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind;
The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams