TWO SUNSETS.

In the fair morning of his life,When his pure heart lay in his breast,Panting, with all that wild unrestTo plunge into the great world's strifeThat fills young hearts with mad desire,He saw a sunset. Red and goldThe burning billows surged and rolled,And upward tossed their caps of fire.He looked. And as he looked, the sightSent from his soul through breast and brainSuch intense joy, it hurt like pain.His heart seemed bursting with delight.So near the Unknown seemed, so closeHe might have grasped it with his hand.He felt his inmost soul expand,As sunlight will expand a rose.One day he heard a singing strain—A human voice, in bird‑like trills.He paused, and little rapture‑rillsWent trickling downward through each vein.And in his heart the whole day long,As in a temple veiled and dim,He kept and bore about with himThe beauty of that singer's song.And then? But why relate what then?His smouldering heart flamed into fire—He had his one supreme desire.And plunged into the world of men.For years queen Folly held her sway.With pleasures of the grosser kindShe fed his flesh and drugged his mind,Till, shamed, he sated turned away.He sought his boyhood's home. That hourTriumphant should have been, in sooth,Since he went forth an unknown youth,And came back crowned with wealth and power.The clouds made day a gorgeous bed;He saw the splendor of the skyWith unmoved heart and stolid eye;He only knew the West was red.Then suddenly a fresh young voiceRose, bird‑like, from some hidden place,He did not even turn his face;It struck him simply as a noise.He trod the old paths up and down.Their rich‑hued leaves by Fall winds whirled—How dull they were—how dull the world—Dull even in the pulsing town.O! worst of punishments, that bringsA blunting of all finer sense,A loss of feelings keen, intense,And dulls us to the higher things.O! penalty most dire, most sure,Swift following after gross delights,That we no more see beauteous sights,Or hear as hear the good and pure.O! shape more hideous and more dreadThan Vengeance takes in creed‑taught minds,This certain doom that blunts and blinds,And strikes the holiest feelings dead.

In the youth of the year, when the birds were building,When the green was showing on tree and hedge,And the tenderest light of all lights was gildingThe world from zenith to outermost edge,My soul grew sad and longingly lonely!I sighed for the season of sun and rose,And I said, "In the Summer and that time onlyLies sweet contentment and blest repose."With bee and bird for her maids of honorCame Princess Summer in robes of green.And the King of day smiled down upon herAnd wooed her, and won her, and made her queen.Fruit of their union and true love's pledges,Beautiful roses bloomed day by day,And rambled in gardens and hid in hedgesLike royal children in sportive play.My restless soul for a little seasonReveled in rapture of glow and bloom,And then, like a subject who harbors treason,Grew full of rebellion and gray with gloom.And I said, "I am sick of the Summer's blisses,Of warmth and beauty, and nothing more.The full fruition my sad soul missesThat beauteous Fall time holds in store!"But now when the colors are almost blinding,Burning and blending on bush and tree,And the rarest fruits are mine for the finding,And the year is ripe as a year can be,My soul complains in the same old fashion;Crying aloud in my troubled breastIs the same old longing, the same old passion.O where is the treasure which men call rest?

Of all the waltzes the great Strauss wrote,Mad with melody, rhythm—rifeFrom the very first to the final note,Give me his "Artist's Life!"It stirs my blood to my finger ends,Thrills me and fills me with vague unrest,And all that is sweetest and saddest blendsTogether within my breast.It brings back that night in the dim arcade,In love's sweet morning and life's best prime.When the great brass orchestra played and played.And set our thoughts to rhyme.It brings back that Winter of mad delights,Of leaping pulses and tripping feet,And those languid moon‑washed Summer nightsWhen we heard the band in the street.It brings back rapture and glee and glow,It brings back passion and pain and strife,And so of all the waltzes I know,Give me the "Artist's Life."For it is so full of the dear old time—So full of the dear old friends I knew.And under its rhythm, and lilt, and rhyme,I am always finding—you.

I think I never passed so sad an hour,Dear friend, as that one at the church to‑night.The edifice from basement to the towerWas one resplendent blaze of colored light.Up through broad aisles the stylish crowd was thronging,Each richly robed like some king's bidden guest."Here will I bring my sorrow and my longing,"I said, "and here find rest."I heard the heavenly organ's voice of thunder,It seemed to give me infinite relief.I wept. Strange eyes looked on in well‑bred wonder.I dried my tears: their gaze profaned my grief.Wrapt in the costly furs, and silks and lacesBeat alien hearts, that had no part with me.I could not read, in all those proud cold faces,One thought of sympathy.I watched them bowing and devoutly kneeling,Heard their responses like sweet waters roll.But only the glorious organ's sacred pealingSeemed gushing from a full and fervent soul.I listened to the man of holy calling,He spoke of creeds, and hailed his own as best;Of man's corruption and of Adam's falling,But naught that gave me rest.Nothing that helped me bear the daily grindingOf soul with body, heart with heated brain.Nothing to show the purpose of this blindingAnd sometimes overwhelming sense of pain.And then, dear friend, I thought of thee, so lowly,So unassuming, and so gently kind,And lo! a peace, a calm serene and holy,Settled upon my mind.Ah, friend, my friend! one true heart, fond and tender,That understands our troubles and our needs,Brings us more near to God than all the splendorAnd pomp of seeming worship and vain creeds.One glance of thy dear eyes so full of feeling,Doth bring me closer to the Infinite,Than all that throng of worldly people kneelingIn blaze of gorgeous light.

Alone she sat with her accusing heart,That, like a restless comrade frightened sleep,And every thought that found her, left a dartThat hurt her so, she could not even weep.Her heart that once had been a cup well filledWith love's red wine, save for some drops of gallShe knew was empty; though it had not spilledIts sweets for one, but wasted them on all.She stood upon the grave of her dead truth,And saw her soul's bright armor red with rust,And knew that all the riches of her youthWere Dead Sea apples, crumbling into dust.Love that had turned to bitter, biting scorn,Hearthstones despoiled, and homes made desolate,Made her cry out that she was ever born,To loathe her beauty and to curse her fate.

To‑day I was so weary and I layIn that delicious state of semi‑waking,When baby, sitting with his nurse at play,Cried loud for "mamma," all his toys forsaking.I was so weary and I needed rest,And signed to nurse to bear him from the room.Then, sudden, rose and caught him to my breast,And kissed the grieving mouth and cheeks of bloom.For swift as lightning came the thought to me,With pulsing heart‑throes and a mist of tears,Of days inevitable, that are to be,If my fair darling grows to manhood's years;Days when he will not call for "mamma," whenThe world with many a pleasure and bright joy,Shall tempt him forth into the haunts of menAnd I shall lose the first place with my boy;When other homes and loves shall give delight,When younger smiles and voices will seem best.And so I held him to my heart to‑night,Forgetting all my need of peace and rest.

In a land beyond sight or conceiving,In a land where no blight is, no wrong,No darkness, no graves, and no grieving,There lies the great ocean of song.And its waves, oh, its waves unbeholdenBy any save gods, and their kind,Are not blue, are not green, but are golden,Like moonlight and sunlight combined.It was whispered to me that their watersWere made from the gathered‑up tears,That were wept by the sons and the daughtersOf long‑vanished eras and spheres.Like white sands of heaven the spray isThat falls all the happy day long,And whoever it touches straightway isMade glad with the spirit of song.Up, up to the clouds where their hoaryCrowned heads melt away in the skies,The beautiful mountains of gloryEach side of the song ocean rise.Here day is one splendor of sky lightOf God's light with beauty replete.Here night is not night, but is twilight,Pervading, enfolding and sweet.Bright birds from all climes and all regionsThat sing the whole glad summer long,Are dumb, till they flock here in legionsAnd lave in the ocean of song.It is here that the four winds of heaven,The winds that do sing and rejoice,It is here they first came and were givenThe secret of sound and a voice.Far down along beautiful beeches,By night and by glorious day,The throng of the gifted ones reaches,Their foreheads made white with the spray.And a few of the sons and the daughtersOf this kingdom, cloud‑hidden from sight,Go down in the wonderful waters,And bathe in those billows of lightAnd their souls ever more are like fountains,And liquid and lucent and strong,High over the tops of the mountainsGush up the sweet billows of song.No drouth‑time of waters can dry them.Whoever has bathed in that sea,All dangers, all deaths, they defy them,And are gladder than gods are, with glee.

We will be what we could be. Do not say,"It might have been, had not or that, or this."No fate can keep us from the chosen way;He only might, whois.We will do what we could do. Do not dreamChance leaves a hero, all uncrowned to grieve.I hold, all men are greatly what they seem;He does, who could achieve.We will climb where we could climb. Tell me notOf adverse storms that kept thee from the height.What eagle ever missed the peak he sought?He always climbs who might.I do not like the phrase, "It might have been!"It lacks all force, and life's best truths perverts:For I believe we have, and reach, and win,Whatever our deserts.

Dear love, if you and I could sail away,With snowy pennons to the winds unfurled,Across the waters of some unknown bay,And find some island far from all the world;If we could dwell there, ever more alone,While unrecorded years slip by apace,Forgetting and forgotten and unknownBy aught save native song‑birds of the place;If Winter never visited that land,And Summer's lap spilled o'er with fruits and flowers,And tropic trees cast shade on every hand,And twinèd boughs formed sleep‑inviting bowers;If from the fashions of the world set free,And hid away from all its jealous strife,I lived alone for you, and you for me—Ah! then, dear love, how sweet were wedded life.But since we dwell here in the crowded way,Where hurrying throngs rush by to seek for gold,And all is common‑place and work‑a‑day,As soon as love's young honeymoon grows old;Since fashion rules and nature yields to art,And life is hurt by daily jar and fret,'Tis best to shut such dreams down in the heartAnd go our ways alone, love, and forget.

In golden youth when seems the earthA Summer‑land of singing mirth,When souls are glad and hearts are light,And not a shadow lurks in sight,We do not know it, but there liesSomewhere veiled under evening skiesA garden which we all must see—The garden of Gethsemane.With joyous steps we go our ways,Love lends a halo to our days;Light sorrows sail like clouds afar,We laugh, and say how strong we are.We hurry on; and hurrying, goClose to the border‑land of woe,That waits for you, and waits for me—Forever waits Gethsemane.Down shadowy lanes, across strange streamsBridged over by our broken dreams;Behind the misty caps of years,Beyond the great salt fount of tears,The garden lies. Strive as you may,You cannot miss it in your way.All paths that have been, or shall be,Pass somewhere through Gethsemane.All those who journey, soon or late,Must pass within the garden's gate;Must kneel alone in darkness there,And battle with some fierce despair.God pity those who can not say,"Not mine but thine," who only pray,"Let this cup pass," and cannot seeThepurposein Gethsemane.

I know not wherefore, but mine eyesSee bloom, where other eyes see blight.They find a rainbow, a sunrise,Where others but discern deep night.Men call me an enthusiast,And say I look through gilded haze:Because where'er my gaze is cast,I see some thing that calls for praise.I say, "Behold those lovely eyes—That tinted cheek of flower‑like grace."They answer in amused surprise:"We thought it such a common face."I say, "Was ever scene more fair?I seem to walk in Eden's bowers."They answer with a pitying air,"The weeds are choking out the flowers."I know not wherefore, but God lentA deeper vision to my sight.On whatsoe'er my gaze is bentI catch the beauty Infinite;That underlying, hidden halfThat all things hold of Deity.So let the dull crowd sneer and laugh—Their eyes are blind, they cannot see.

I must do as you do? Your way I ownIs a very good way. And still,There are sometimes two straight roads to a town,One over, one under the hill.You are treading the safe and the well‑worn way,That the prudent choose each time;And you think me reckless and rash to‑day,Because I prefer to climb.Your path is the right one, and so is mine.We are not like peas in a pod,Compelled to lie in a certain line,Or else be scattered abroad.'Twere a dull old world, methinks, my friend,If we all went just one way;Yet our paths will meet no doubt at the end,Though they lead apart to‑day.You like the shade, and I like the sun;You like an even pace,I like to mix with the crowd and run,And then rest after the race.I like danger, and storm and strife,You like a peaceful time;I like the passion and surge of life,You like its gentle rhyme.You like buttercups, dewy sweet,And crocuses, framed in snow;I like roses, born of the heat,And the red carnation's glow.I must live my life, not yours, my friend,For so it was written down;We must follow our given paths to the end,But I trust we shall meet—in town.

Over the banisters bends a face,Daringly sweet and beguiling.Somebody stands in careless grace,And watches the picture, smiling.The light burns dim in the hall below,Nobody sees her standing,Saying good‑night again, soft and slow,Half way up to the landing.Nobody only the eyes of brown,Tender and full of meaning,That smile on the fairest face in town,Over the banisters leaning.Tired and sleepy, with drooping head,I wonder why she lingers;Now, when the good‑nights all are said,Why somebody holds her fingers.He holds her fingers and draws her down,Suddenly growing bolder,Till the loose hair drops its masses brownLike a mantle over his shoulder.Over the banisters soft hands, fair,Brush his cheeks like a feather,And bright brown tresses and dusky hair,Meet and mingle together.There's a question asked, there's a swift caress,She has flown like a bird from the hallway,But over the banisters drops a "yes,"That shall brighten the world for him alway.

Though with gods the world is cumbered,Gods unnamed, and gods unnumbered,Never god was known to beWho had not his devotee.So I dedicate to mine,Here in verse, my temple‑shrine.'Tis not Ares,—mighty Mars,Who can give success in wars.'Tis not Morpheus, who doth keepGuard above us while we sleep,'Tis not Venus, she whose duty'Tis to give us love and beauty;Hail to these, and others, afterMomus, gleesome god of laughter.Quirinus would guard my health!Plutus would insure me wealthMercury looks after trade,Hera smiles on youth and maid.All are kind, I own their worth,After Momus, god of mirth.Though Apollo, out of spite,Hides away his face of light.Though Minerva looks askance,Deigning me no smiling glance,Kings and queens may envy meWhile I claim the god of glee.Wisdom wearies, Love has wings—Wealth makes burdens, Pleasure stings,Glory proves a thorny crown—So all gifts the gods throw downBring their pains and troubles after;All save Momus, god of laughter.He alone gives constant joy,Hail to Momus, happy boy.

Oh, I have dreams. I sometimes dream of LifeIn the full meaning of that splendid word.Its subtle music which few men have heard,Though all may hear it, sounding through earth's strife.Its mountain heights by mystic breezes kissed,Lifting their lovely peaks above the dust;Its treasures which no touch of time can rust,Its emerald seas, its dawns of amethyst,Its certain purpose, its serene repose,Its usefulness, that finds no hour for woes,This is my dream of Life.Yes, I have dreams. I ofttimes dream of LoveAs radiant and brilliant as a star.As changeless, too, as that fixed light afarWhich glorifies vast worlds of space above.Strong as the tempest when it holds its breath,Before it bursts in fury; and as deepAs the unfathomed seas, where lost worlds sleepAnd sad as birth, and beautiful as death.As fervent as the fondest soul could crave,Yet holy as the moonlight on a grave.This is my dream of Love.Yes, yes, I dream. One oft‑recurring dream,Is beautiful and comforting and blest.Complete with certain promises of rest.Divine content, and ecstasy supreme.When that strange essence, author of all faith,That subtle something, which cries for the light,Like a lost child who wanders in the night,Shall solve the mighty mystery of Death,Shall find eternal progress, or sublimeAnd satisfying slumber for all time.This is my dream of Death.

I fling my past behind me, like a robeWorn threadbare in the seams, and out of date.I have outgrown it. Wherefore should I weepAnd dwell upon its beauty, and its dyesOf Oriental splendor, or complainThat I must needs discard it? I can weaveUpon the shuttles of the future yearsA fabric far more durable. Subdued,It may be, in the blending of its hues,Where somber shades commingle, yet the gleamOf golden warp shall shoot it through and through,While over all a fadeless luster lies,And starred with gems made out of crystalled tears,My new robe shall be richer than the old.

Alone it stands in Poesy's fair land,A temple by the muses set apart;A perfect structure of consummate art,By artists builded and by genius planned.Beyond the reach of the apprentice hand,Beyond the ken of the untutored heart,Like a fine carving in a common mart,Only the favored few will understand.Achef‑d'œuvretoiled over with great care,Yet which the unseeing careless crowd goes by,A plainly set, but well‑cut solitaire,An ancient bit of pottery, too rareTo please or hold aught save the special eye,These only with the sonnet can compare.

Think not some knowledge rests with thee alone;Why, even God's stupendous secret, Death,We one by one, with our expiring breath,Do pale with wonder seize and make our own;The bosomed treasures of the earth are shown,Despite her careful hiding; and the airYields its mysterious marvels in despairTo swell the mighty store‑house of things known.In vain the sea expostulates and raves;It cannot cover from the keen world's sightThe curious wonders of its coral caves.And so, despite thy caution or thy tears,The prying fingers of detective yearsShall dragthysecret out into the light.

That was a curious dream; I thought the threeGreat planets that are drawing near the sunWith such unerring certainty, begunTo talk together in a mighty glee.They spoke of vast convulsions which would beThroughout the solar system—the rare funOf watching haughty stars drop, one by one,And vanish in a seething vapor sea.I thought I heard them comment on the earth—That small dark object—doomed beyond a doubt.They wondered if live creatures moved aboutIts tiny surface, deeming it of worth.And then they laughed—'twas such a ringing shoutThat I awoke and joined too in their mirth.

Let mine not be that saddest fate of allTo live beyond my greater self; to seeMy faculties decaying, as the treeStands stark and helpless while its green leaves fall.Let me hear rather the imperious call,Which all men dread, in my glad morning time,And follow death ere I have reached my prime,Or drunk the strengthening cordial of life's gall.The lightning's stroke or the fierce tempest blastWhich fells the green tree to the earth to‑dayIs kinder than the calm that lets it last,Unhappy witness of its own decay.May no man ever look on me and say,"She lives, but all her usefulness is past."

There is no chance, no destiny, no fate,Can circumvent or hinder or controlThe firm resolve of a determined soul.Gifts count for nothing; will alone is great;All things give way before it, soon or late.What obstacle can stay the mighty forceOf the sea‑seeking river in its course,Or cause the ascending orb of day to wait?Each well‑born soul must win what it deserves.Let the fool prate of luck. The fortunateIs he whose earnest purpose never swerves,Whose slightest action or inaction servesThe one great aim.Why, even Death stands still,And waits an hour sometimes for such a will.

Falling upon the frozen world last night,I heard the slow beat of the Winter rain—Poor foolish drops, down‑dripping all in vain;The ice‑bound Earth but mocked their puny might,Far better had the fixedness of whiteAnd uncomplaining snows—which make no sign,But coldly smile, when pitying moonbeams shine—Concealed its sorrow from all human sight.Long, long ago, in blurred and burdened years,I learned the uselessness of uttered woe.Though sinewy Fate deals her most skillful blow,I do not waste the gall now of my tears,But feed my pride upon its bitter, whileI look straight in the world's bold eyes, and smile.

I hold it one of the sad certain lawsWhich makes our failures sometimes seem more kindThan that success which brings sure loss behind—True greatness dies, when sounds the world's applauseFame blights the object it would bless, becauseWeighed down with men's expectancy, the mindCan no more soar to those far heights, and findThat freedom which its inspiration was.When once we listen to its noisy cheersOr hear the populace' approval, thenWe catch no more the music of the spheres,Or walk with gods, and angels, but with men.Till, impotent from our self‑conscious fears,The plaudits of the world turn into sneers.

Life, like a romping schoolboy, full of glee,Doth bear us on his shoulders for a time.There is no path too steep for him to climb,With strong, lithe limbs, as agile and as free,As some young roe, he speeds by vale and sea,By flowery mead, by mountain peak sublime,And all the world seems motion set to rhyme,Till, tired out, he cries, "Now carry me!"In vain we murmur, "Come," Life says, "fair play!"And seizes on us. God! he goads us so!He does not let us sit down all the day.At each new step we feel the burden grow,Till our bent backs seem breaking as we go,Watching for Death to meet us on the way.

"Genius, a man's weapon, a woman's burden."—Lamartine.Dear God! there is no sadder fate in life,Than to be burdened so that you can notSit down contented with the common lotOf happy mother and devoted wife.To feel your brain wild and your bosom rifeWith all the sea's commotion; to be fraughtWith fires and frenzies which you have not sought,And weighed down with the wide world's weary strife.To feel a fever alway in your breast,To lean and hear half in affright, half shame.A loud‑voiced public boldly mouth your name,To reap your hard‑sown harvest in unrest,And know, however great your meed of fame,You are but a weak woman at the best.

They met each other in the glade—She lifted up her eyes;Alack the day! Alack the maid!She blushed in swift surprise.Alas! alas! the woe that comes from lifting up the eyes.The pail was full, the path was steep—He reached to her his hand;She felt her warm young pulses leap,But did not understand.Alas! alas! the woe that comes from clasping hand with hand.She sat beside him in the wood—He wooed with words and sighs;Ah! love in spring seems sweet and good,And maidens are not wise.Alas! alas! the woe that comes from listing lovers' sighs.The summer sun shone fairly down,The wind blew from the south;As blue eyes gazed in eyes of brown,His kiss fell on her mouth.Alas! alas! the woe that comes from kisses on the mouth.And now the autumn time is near,The lover roves away,With breaking heart and falling tear,She sits the livelong day.Alas! alas! for breaking hearts when lovers rove away.

Let the dream go. Are there not other dreamsIn vastness of clouds hid from thy sightThat yet shall gild with beautiful gold gleams,And shoot the shadows through and through with light?What matters one lost vision of the night?Let the dream go!Let the hope set. Are there not other hopesThat yet shall rise like new stars in thy sky?Not long a soul in sullen darkness gropesBefore some light is lent it from on high;What folly to think happiness gone by!Let the hope set!Let the joy fade. Are there not other joys,Like frost‑bound bulbs, that yet shall start and bloom?Severe must be the winter that destroysThe hardy roots locked in their silent tomb.What cares the earth for her brief time of gloom?Let the joy fade!Let the love die. Are there not other lovesAs beautiful and full of sweet unrest,Flying through space like snowy‑pinioned doves?They yet shall come and nestle in thy breast,And thou shalt say of each, "Lo, this is best!"Let the love die!

Into the gloom of the deep, dark night,With panting breath and a startled scream;Swift as a bird in sudden flightDarts this creature of steel and steam.Awful dangers are lurking nigh,Rocks and chasms are near the track,But straight by the light of its great white eyeIt speeds through the shadows, dense and black.Terrible thoughts and fierce desiresTrouble its mad heart many an hour,Where burn and smoulder the hidden fires,Coupled ever with might and power.It hates, as a wild horse hates the rein,The narrow track by vale and hill;And shrieks with a cry of startled pain,And longs to follow its own wild will.Oh, what am I but an engine, shodWith muscle and flesh, by the hand of God,Speeding on through the dense, dark night,Guided alone by the soul's white light.Often and often my mad heart tires,And hates its way with a bitter hate,And longs to follow its own desires,And leave the end in the hand of fate.O mighty engine of steel and steam;O human engine of blood and bone,Follow the white light's certain beam—There lies safety and there alone.The narrow track of fearless truth,Lit by the soul's great eye of light,O passionate heart of restless youth,Alone will carry you through the night.

From the dawn of spring till the year grows hoary,Nothing is new that is done or said,The leaves are telling the same old story—"Budding, bursting, dying, dead."And ever and always the wild bird's chorusIs "coming, building, flying, fled."Never the round earth roams or rangesOut of her circuit, so old, so old,And the smile o' the sun knows but these changes—Beaming, burning, tender, cold,As Spring time softens or Winter estrangesThe mighty heart of this orb of gold.From our great sire's birth to the last morn's breakingThere were tempest, sunshine, fruit and frost,And the sea was calm or the sea was shakingHis mighty main like a lion crossed,And ever this cry the heart was making—Longing, loving, losing, lost.Forever the wild wind wanders, crying,Southerly, easterly, north and west,And one worn song the fields are sighing,"Sowing, growing, harvest, rest,"And the tired thought of the world, replyingLike an echo to what is last and best,Murmurs—"Rest."

Thank God for dreams! I, desolate and lone,In the dark curtained night, did seem to beThe centre where all golden sun‑rays shone,And, sitting there, held converse sweet with thee.No shadow lurked between us; all was brightAnd beautiful as in the hours gone by,I smiled, and was rewarded by the lightOf olden days soft beaming from thine eye.Thank God, thank God for dreams!I thought the birds all listened; for thy voicePulsed through the air, like beat of silver wings.It made each chamber of my soul rejoiceAnd thrilled along my heart's tear‑rusted strings.As some devout and ever‑prayerful nunTells her bright beads, and counts them o'er and o'er,Thy golden words I gathered, one by one,And slipped them into memory's precious store.Thank God, thank God for dreams!My lips met thine in one ecstatic kiss.Hand pressed in hand, and heart to heart we sat.Why even now I am surcharged with bliss—With joy supreme, if I but think of that.No fear of separation or of changeCrept in to mar our sweet serene content.In that blest vision, nothing could estrangeOur wedded souls, in perfect union blent.Thank God, thank God for dreams!Thank God for dreams! when nothing else is left.When the sick soul, all tortured with its pain,Knowing itself forever more bereft,Finds waiting hopeless and all watching vain,When empty arms grow rigid with their ache,When eyes are blinded with sad tides of tears,When stricken hearts do suffer, yet not break,For loss of those who come not with the years—Thank God, thank God for dreams!

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