A Dream
BENEATH the loveliest dream there coils a fear:
Last night came she whose eyes are memories now,
Her far-off gaze seemed all-forgetful how
Love dimmed them once, so calm they shone, and clear.
“Sorrow (I said) hath made me old, my dear;
’Tis I, indeed, but grief doth change the brow;
A love like mine a seraph’s neck might bow,
Vigils like mine would blanch an angel’s hair.”
Ah! then I saw, I saw the sweet lips move!
I saw the love-mists thickening in her eyes;
I heard wild wordless melodies of love,
Like murmur of dreaming brooks in Paradise;
And when upon my neck she fell, my dove,
I knew her hair, though heavy of amaranth-spice.
Theodore Watts.