They come to me at night, and in the morning,
And in the woods, when I least expect them.
And on the path where the hollyhocks bloom
Leading to our door. They come to me,
Those engines of my invention, shadows,
Dim shadows. Again they speak to me
As in the former times when we spoke
Together, I answering them in my way.
They come to me wondering how I am,
And why so far from London, and silent.
They come to me when I seek a dreamless
Sleep, unburdened by the churning,
The churning of all that might yet be.
They come to me and beg me to reconsider,
So far from London, from the wooden dreams.