Whispers.

So goes the flowing hope—
wearily by day. A thing  
affections disguise within;
 
carried upon a borrowing,
and levees of the wind.  
Ask yourself, what does it  
 
conceal, and whether you
can turn away? While a  
dark-haired familiar walks
 
beside your step, weaving
a ceaseless undertow  
from riddles, or thoughts,
 
that would have rejected
vacuums, long before—
and dreams begin to espy
 
statecraft in quaint smiles
or the assuring word,
quicker than sparrows fly,
 
racing against the censure
of sundusk and solstice.