THE FOREST OF DREAMS.

Where was I last Friday night?—

Within the forest of dark dreams

Following the blur of a goblin-light,

That led me over ugly streams,

Whereon the scum of the spawn was spread,

And the blistered slime, in stagnant seams;

Where the weed and the moss swam black and dead,

Like a drowned girl's hair in the ropy ooze:

And the jack-o’ - lantern light that led,

Flickered the fox-fire trees o'erhead,

And the owl-like things at airy cruise.

Where was I last Friday night?—

Within the forest of dark dreams

Following a form of shadowy white

With my own wild face it seems.

Did a raven's wing just flap my hair?

Or a web-winged bat brush by my face?

Or the hand of — something I did not dare

Look round to see in that obscene place?

Where the boughs, with leaves a-devil's-dance,

And the thorn-tree bush, where the wind made moan,

Had more than a strange significance

Of life and of evil not their own.

Where was I last Friday night?—

Within the forest of dark dreams

Seeing the mists rise left and right,

Like the leathery fog that heaves and steams

From the rolling horror of Hell's red streams.

While the wind, that tossed in the tattered tree,

And danced alone with the last mad leaf...

Or was it the wind?... kept whispering me —

“Now bury it here with its own black grief,

And its eyes of fire you can not brave!” —

And in the darkness I seemed to see

My own self digging my soul a grave.