The Dream

By SMPAD SHAHAZIZ

(1840–1897)

Soft and low a voice breathed o’er me,
Near me did my mother seem;
Flashed a ray of joy before me,
But, alas, it was a dream!

There the murmuring streamlet flowing
Scattered radiant pearls around,
Pure and clear, like crystal glowing—
But it was a dream, unsound.

And my mother’s mournful singing
Took me back to childhood’s day,
To my mind her kisses bringing—
’Twas a dream and passed away!

To her heart she pressed me yearning,
Wiped her eyes which wet did seem;
And her tears fell on me burning—
Why should it have been a dream?