THE DREAMER

O thou who giving helm and sword,

Gav'st, too, the rusting rain,

And starry dark's all tender dews

To blunt and stain:

Out of the battle I am sped,

Unharmed, yet stricken sore;

A living shape amid whispering shades

On Lethe's shore.

No trophy in my hands I bring,

To this sad, sighing stream,

The neighings and the trumps and cries

Were but a dream.

Traitor to life, of life betrayed:

O, of thy mercy deep,

A dream my all, the all I ask

Is sleep.