THE DEATH-DREAM

Who, now, put dreams into thy slumbering mind?

Who, with bright Fear's lean taper, crossed a hand

Athwart its beam, and stooping, truth maligned,

Spake so thy spirit speech should understand,

And with a dread “He's dead!” awaked a peal

Of frenzied bells along the vacant ways

Of thy poor earthly heart; waked thee to steal,

Like dawn distraught upon unhappy days,

To prove nought, nothing? Was it Time's large voice

Out of the inscrutable future whispered so?

Or but the horror of a little noise

Earth wakes at dead of night? Or does Love know

When his sweet wings weary and droop, and even

In sleep cries audibly a shrill remorse?

Or, haply, was it I who out of dream

Stole but a little where shadows course,

Called back to thee across the eternal stream?