“DREAM”

Because her eyes were far too deep

And holy for a laugh to leap

Across the brink where sorrow tried

To drown within the amber tide;

Because the looks, whose ripples kissed

The trembling lids through tender mist,

Were dazzled with a radiant gleam —

Because of this I call her “Dream.”

Because the roses growing wild

About her features when she smiled

Were ever dewed with tears that fell

With tenderness ineffable;

Because her lips might spill a kiss

That, dripping in a world like this,

Would tincture death's myrrh-bitter stream

To sweetness — so I called her “Dream.”

Because I could not understand

The magic touches of a hand

That seemed, beneath her strange control,

To smooth the plumage of the soul

And calm it, till, with folded wings,

It half forgot its flutterings,

And, nestled in her palm, did seem

To trill a song that called her “Dream.”

Because I saw her, in a sleep

As dark and desolate and deep

And fleeting as the taunting night

That flings a vision of delight

To some lorn martyr as he lies

In slumber ere the day he dies —

Because she vanished like a gleam

Of glory, do I call her “Dream.”