A LOST IDEAL
A mocking bird from out the SouthSang through my dream, he said,But when the dream was done I heardA woman’s voice instead.A woman’s voice that strove to wakeThe joyous tones I missed;But only breathed a sigh acrossThe lips that pain had kissed.A deep perfume of tropic flowersStole through my dream, he said;But when I sought the blossoms brightI saw a face instead.A woman’s face where Nature wroteThe score of some grand hymn,Then blotting it with life and toilLeft all the record dim.And in the dream my soul thrice turnedTo greet a comrade call;But when I woke the gray of nightLay silent over all.