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 called 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."