* DREAMS *

When I have won to rest once more

In sanctity of night and sleep,

Drift visions from the shadow shore —

Small, patient forms that creep.

They move in drab; they wear no wings;

They are the dreams that might come true —

Meek phantoms of the modest things

That I have power to do.

Like azure shadows in the snow,

Or bloom upon the sun-kissed grape,

Sweep lovelier shapes, that gleam and glow

And don a rarer shape.

They smile with eyes of queens and kings;

They call on me to make them true —

The lordly, gracious, sovereign things

I have no power to do.

Remain such waking dreams as limn

Upon reality and truth,

Flying like holy seraphim

Whose rainbow wings drop ruth.

Born of the human sorrowings

That pierce our common nature through,

They challenge to the mightiest things

All men have power to do.