In the golden hours of your dreaming,
When all the world is warm and true,
Whose hand is in your golden hand?
Who crests the edge of night with you?
I wish I were a gentler soul
So I might meet you where you stand,
Or be at least the place you walk–
I wish I were that silver land.
But I am not that paragon,
No unspoiled ivory tower I,
I cannot join you where you go
Wild boy, true love of mine.