EVENING AND DREAM

If there were dreams to sell, What would you buy? Some cost a passing bell; Some a light sigh, That shakes from Life's fresh crown Only a rose-leaf down. If there were dreams to sell, Merry and sad to tell, And the crier rang the bell, What would you buy? A cottage lone and still, With bowers nigh, Shadowy, my woes to still, Until I die. Such peace from Life's fresh crown Fain would I shake me down. Were dreams to have at will, This would best heal my ill, This would I buy. Thomas Lovell Beddoes

The evening sun was sinking down On low green hills and clustered trees; It was a scene as fair and lone As ever felt the soothing breeze That cools the grass when day is gone, And gives the waves a brighter blue, And makes the soft white clouds sail on— Like spirits of ethereal dew Which all the morn had hovered o'er The azure flowers, where they were nursed, And now return to Heaven once more, Where their bright glories shone at first. Emily Brontë

Thou Fair-haired Angel of the Evening, Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light Thy bright torch of love; thy radiant crown Put on, and smile upon our evening bed! Smile on our loves; and while thou drawest the Blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes In timely sleep. Let thy West Wind sleep on The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes, And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full soon, Dost thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide, And the lion glares through the dun forest: The fleeces of the flocks are covered with Thy sacred dew: protect them with thine influence. William Blake

Shut not so soon; the dull-eyed night Hath not as yet begun To make a seisure on the light, Or to seale up the Sun. No Marigolds yet closèd are; No shadowes great appeare: Nor doth the early Shepheard's Starre Shine like a spangle here. Stay but till my Julia close Her life-begetting eye; And let the whole world then dispose It selfe to live or dye. Robert Herrick

What, hast thou run thy Race? Art going down? Thou seemest angry, why dost on us frown? Yea wrap thy head with Clouds, and hide thy face, As threatning to withdraw from us thy Grace? Oh leave us not! When once thou hid'st thy head, Our Hórizon with darkness will be spread. Tell's, who hath thee offended? Turn again: Alas! too late—Entreaties are in vain!... John Bunyan

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright The bridal of the earth and skie: The dew shall weep thy fall to-night, For thou must die. Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die. Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie, My music shows ye have your closes, And all must die. Only a sweet and vertuous soul, Like seasoned timber, never gives; But though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives. George Herbert

The sun descending in the west, The evening star does shine; The birds are silent in their nest, And I must seek for mine. The moon, like a flower, In heaven's high bower, With silent delight Sits and smiles on the night. Farewell green fields and happy groves, Where flocks have took delight. Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves The feet of angels bright; Unseen they pour blessing, And joy without ceasing, On each bud and blossom, And each sleeping bosom. They look in every thoughtless nest, Where birds are covered warm; They visit caves of every beast, To keep them all from harm. If they see any weeping, That should have been sleeping, They pour sleep on their head, And sit down by their bed. When wolves and tygers howl for prey, They pitying stand and weep; Seeking to drive their thirst away, And keep them from the sheep. But if they rush dreadful, The angels, most heedful, Receive each mild spirit, New worlds to inherit. And there the lion's ruddy eyes Shall flow with tears of gold, And pitying the tender cries, And walking round the fold, Saying, "Wrath, by his meekness, And, by his health, sickness Is driven away From our immortal day. "And now beside thee, bleating lamb, I can lie down and sleep; Or think on Him who bore thy name, Graze after thee and weep. For, washed in life's river, My bright mane for ever Shall shine like the gold, As I guard o'er the fold." William Blake

When the voices of children are heard on the green, And laughing is heard on the hill, My heart is at rest within my breast, And everything else is still. "Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down, And the dews of night arise; Come, come, leave off play, and let us away Till the morning appears in the skies." "No, no, let us play, for it is yet day, And we cannot go to sleep; Besides, in the sky the little birds fly, And the hills are all covered with sheep." "Well, well, go and play till the light fades away, And then go home to bed." The little ones leapèd and shouted and laughed And all the hills echoèd. William Blake

When once the sun sinks in the west, And dew-drops pearl the evening's breast; Almost as pale as moonbeams are, Or its companionable star, The evening primrose opes anew Its delicate blossoms to the dew; And, shunning hermit of the light, Wastes its fair bloom upon the night; Who, blindfold to its fond caresses, Knows not the beauty he possesses. Thus it blooms on till night is bye And day looks out with open eye, Abashed at the gaze it cannot shun, It faints and withers, and is done. Emily Brontë

Time, you old gipsy man, Will you not stay, Put up your caravan Just for one day? All things I'll give you Will you be my guest, Bells for your jennet Of silver the best, Goldsmiths shall beat you A great golden ring Peacocks shall bow to you, Little boys sing, Oh, and sweet girls will Festoon you with may. Time, you old gipsy, Why hasten away? Last week in Babylon, Last night in Rome, Morning, and in the crush Under Paul's dome; Under Paul's dial You tighten your rein— Only a moment, And off once again; Off to some city Now blind in the womb, Off to another Ere that's in the tomb. Time, you old gipsy man, Will you not stay, Put up your caravan Just for one day? Ralph Hodgson

When the Present has latched its postern behind my tremulous stay, And the May month flaps its glad green leaves like wings, Delicate-filmed as new-spun silk, will the neighbours say, "He was a man who used to notice such things"? If it be in the dusk when, like an eyelid's soundless blink, The dewfall-hawk comes crossing the shades to alight Upon the wind-warped upland thorn, a gazer may think, "To him this must have been a familiar sight." If I pass during some nocturnal blackness, mothy and warm, When the hedgehog travels furtively over the lawn, One may say, "He strove that such innocent creatures should come to no harm, But he could do little for them; and now he is gone." If, when hearing that I have been stilled at last, they stand at the door, Watching the full-starred heavens that winter sees, Will this thought rise on those who will meet my face no more, "He was one who had an eye for such mysteries"? And will any say when my bell of quittance is heard in the gloom, And a crossing breeze cuts a pause in its outrollings, Till they rise again, as they were a new bell's boom, "He hears it not now, but used to notice such things"? Thomas Hardy

"What, you are stepping westward?"—"Yea." —'Twould be a wildish destiny, If we, who thus together roam In a strange land, and far from home, Were in this place the guests of chance; Yet who would stop, or fear to advance, Though home or shelter he had none, With such a sky to lead him on?" The dewy ground was dark and cold; Behind, all gloomy to behold; And stepping westward seemed to be A kind of heavenly destiny; I liked the greeting; 'twas a sound Of something without place or bound; And seemed to give me spiritual right To travel through that region bright. The voice was soft, and she who spake Was walking by her native lake; The salutation had to me The very sound of courtesy; Its power was felt; and while my eye Was fixed upon the glowing sky, The echo of the voice enwrought A human sweetness with the thought Of travelling through the world that lay Before me in my endless way. William Wordsworth

Shepherds all, and Maidens fair, Fold your Flocks up; for the Air 'Gins to thicken, and the Sun Already his great course hath run. See the Dew-drops how they kiss Every little Flower that is: Hanging on their Velvet Heads, Like a Rope of Cristal Beads. See the heavy Clouds low falling, And bright Hesperus down calling The dead Night from under Ground, At whose rising, Mists unsound, Damps and Vapours fly apace, Hov'ring o'er the smiling Face Of these Pastures, where they come, Striking dead both Bud and Bloom; Therefore, from such Danger, lock Ev'ry one of his lovèd Flock; And let your Dogs lie loose without, Lest the Wolf come as a scout From the Mountain, and, ere day, Bear a Lamb or Kid away; Or the crafty, thievish Fox Break upon your simple Flocks: To secure yourself from these Be not too secure in ease; Let one Eye his watches keep, While the other Eye doth sleep; So shall you good Shepherds prove, And deserve your Master's love. Now, good night! may Sweetest Slumbers And soft Silence fall in numbers On your Eye-lids: So, farewell; Thus I end my Evening knell. John Fletcher

Swiftly walk o'er the western wave, Spirit of Night! Out of the misty eastern cave, Where, all the long and lone daylight, Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear, Which make thee terrible and dear,— Swift be thy flight! Wrap thy form in a mantle grey Star-inwrought; Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day, Kiss her until she be wearied out: Then wander o'er city and sea and land, Touching all with thine opiate wand— Come, long-sought! When I arose and saw the dawn I sighed for thee; When light rode high, and the dew was gone, And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, And the weary Day turned to his rest, Lingering like an unloved guest, I sighed for thee. Thy brother Death came, and cried Wouldst thou me? Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, Murmured like a noon-tide bee, Shall I nestle near thy side? Wouldst thou me?—And I replied No, not thee! Death will come when thou art dead, Soon, too soon— Sleep will come when thou art fled; Of neither would I ask the boon I ask of thee, belovèd Night— Swift be thine approaching flight, Come soon, soon! Percy Bysshe Shelley

Light the lamps up, Lamplighter, The people are in the street— Without a light They have no sight, And where will they plant their feet? Some will tread in the gutter, And some in the mud—oh dear! Light the lamps up, Lamplighter, Because the night is here. Light the candles, Grandmother, The children are going to bed— Without a wick They'll stumble and stick, And where will they lay their head? Some will lie on the staircase, And some in the hearth—oh dear! Light the candles, Grandmother, Because the night is here. Light the stars up, Gabriel, The cherubs are out to fly— If heaven is blind How will they find Their way across the sky? Some will splash in the Milky Way, Or bump on the moon—oh dear! Light the stars up, Gabriel, Because the night is here. Eleanor Farjeon

Will you come? Will you come? Will you ride So late At my side? O, will you come? Will you come? Will you come If the night Has a moon, Full and bright? O, will you come? Would you come? Would you come If the noon Gave light, Not the moon? Beautiful, would you come? Would you have come? Would you have come Without scorning, Had it been Still morning? Beloved, would you have come? If you come Haste and come. Owls have cried; It grows dark To ride. Beloved, beautiful, come! Edward Thomas

Wull ye come in eärly Spring, Come at Easter, or in Mäy? Or when Whitsuntide mid bring Longer light to show your wäy? Wull ye come, if you be true, Vor to quicken love anew? Wull ye call in Spring or Fall? Come now soon by zun or moon? Wull ye come? Come wi' väice to väice the while All their words be sweet to hear; Come that feäce to feäce mid smile, While their smiles do seem so dear; Come within the year to seek Woone you have sought woonce a week? Come while flow'rs be on the bow'rs, And the bird o' songs a-heärd. Wull ye come? Ees come to ye, an' come vor ye, is my word, I wull come. William Barnes

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair, State in wonted manner keep; Hesperus entreats thy light, Goddess excellently bright. Earth, let not thy envious shade Dare itself to interpose; Cynthia's shining orb was made Heaven to clear when day did close: Bless us then with wishèd sight, Goddess excellently bright. Lay thy bow of pearl apart, And thy crystal shining quiver; Give unto the flying hart Space to breathe, how short soever: Thou that mak'st a day of night, Goddess excellently bright. Ben Jonson

The clouds have left the sky, The wind hath left the sea, The half-moon up on high Shrinketh her face of dree. She lightens on the comb Of leaden waves, that roar And thrust their hurried foam Up on the dusky shore. Behind the western bars The shrouded day retreats, And unperceived the stars Steal to their sovran seats. And whiter grows the foam, The small moon lightens more; And as I turn me home, My shadow walks before. Robert Bridges

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies! How silently, and with how wan a face! What! may it be that even in heavenly place That busy archer his sharp arrows tries? Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case: I read it in thy looks; thy languished grace To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, Is constant love deemed there but want of wit? Are beauties there as proud as here they be? Do they above love to be loved, and yet Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess? Do they call virtue there ungratefulness? Sir Philip Sidney

I would not be the Moon, the sickly thing, To summon owls and bats upon the wing; For when the noble Sun is gone away, She turns his night into a pallid day. She hath no air, no radiance of her own, That world unmusical of earth and stone. She wakes her dim, uncoloured, voiceless hosts, Ghost of the Sun, herself the sun of ghosts. The mortal eyes that gaze too long on her Of Reason's piercing ray defrauded are. Light in itself doth feed the living brain; That light, reflected, but makes darkness plain. Mary Coleridge

And like a dying lady, lean and pale, Who totters forth, wrapt in a gauzy veil, Out of her chamber, led by the insane And feeble wanderings of her fading brain, The moon arose up in the murky east, A white and shapeless mass. Percy Bysshe Shelley

So, we'll go no more a-roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright. For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest. Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a-roving By the light of the moon. George Gordon, Lord Byron

All my stars forsake me, And the dawn-winds shake me. Where shall I betake me? Whither shall I run Till the set of sun, Till the day be done? To the mountain-mine, To the boughs o' the pine, To the blind man's eyne, To a brow that is Bowed upon the knees, Sick with memories. Alice Meynell

The night will never stay, The night will still go by, Though with a million stars You pin it to the sky; Though you bind it with the blowing wind And buckle it with the moon, The night will slip away Like sorrow or a tune. Eleanor Farjeon

"The wind's on the wold And the night is a-cold, And Thames runs chill Twixt mead and hill, But kind and dear Is the old house here, And my heart is warm Midst winter's harm. Rest then and rest, And think of the best Twixt summer and spring When all birds sing In the town of the tree, And ye lie in me And scarce dare move Lest earth and its love Should fade away Ere the full of the day. I am old and have seen Many things that have been, Both grief and peace, And wane and increase. No tale I tell Of ill or well, But this I say, Night treadeth on day, And for worst and best Right good is rest." William Morris

He that lies at the stock, Shall have the gold rock; He that lies at the wall, Shall have the gold ball; He that lies in the middle, Shall have the gold fiddle.

Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, Bless the bed that I lie on. Before I lay me down to sleep I give my soul to Christ to keep. Four corners to my bed, Four angels there aspread, Two to foot, and two to head, And four to carry me when I'm dead. I go by sea, I go by land, The Lord made me with His right hand. If any danger come to me, Sweet Jesus Christ deliver me. He's the branch and I'm the flower, Pray God send me a happy hour, And if I die before I wake, I pray that Christ my soul will take.

Close thine eyes, and sleep secure; Thy soul is safe, thy body sure. He that guards thee, he that keeps, Never slumbers, never sleeps. A quiet conscience in the breast Has only peace, has only rest. The wisest and the mirth of kings Are out of tune unless she sings: Then close thine eyes in peace and sleep secure, No sleep so sweet as thine, no rest so sure. Charles I.

While Morpheus thus does gently lay His powerful charge upon each part Making thy spirits even obey The silver charms of his dull art; I, thy Good Angel, from thy side,— As smoke doth from the altar rise, Making no noise as it doth glide,— Will leave thee in this soft surprise; And from the clouds will fetch thee down A holy vision, to express Thy right unto an earthly crown; No power can make this kingdom less. But gently, gently, lest I bring A start in sleep by sudden flight, Playing aloof, and hovering, Till I am lost unto the sight. This is a motion still and soft; So free from noise and cry, That Jove himself, who hears a thought, Knows not when we pass by. Henry Killigrew

Upon a Sabbath-day it fell; Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell, That called the folk to evening prayer; The city streets were clean and fair From wholesome drench of April rains; And, on the western window panes, The chilly sunset faintly told Of unmatured green vallies cold, Of the green thorny bloomless hedge, Of rivers new with spring-tide sedge, Of primroses by sheltered rills, And daisies on the aguish hills. Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell: The silent streets were crowded well With staid and pious companies, Warm from their fire-side oratories; And moving, with demurest air, To even-song, and vesper-prayer. Each archèd porch, and entry low, Was filled with patient folk and slow, With whispers hush, and shuffling feet, While played the organ loud and sweet. The bells had ceased, the prayers begun, And Bertha had not yet half done A curious volume, patched and torn, That all day long, from earliest morn, Had taken captive her two eyes, Among its golden broideries; Perplexed her with a thousand things,— The stars of Heaven, and angels' wings, Martyrs in a fiery blaze, Azure saints in silver rays, Moses' breastplate, and the seven Candlesticks John saw in Heaven, The winged Lion of Saint Mark, And the Covenantal Ark, With its many mysteries, Cherubim and golden mice. Bertha was a maiden fair, Dwelling in the old Minster-square; From her fire-side she could see, Sidelong, its rich antiquity, Far as the Bishop's garden-wall; Where sycamores and elm-trees tall, Full-leaved, the forest had outstript, By no sharp north-wind ever nipt, So sheltered by the mighty pile, Bertha arose, and read awhile, With forehead 'gainst the window-pane, Again she tryed, and then again, Until the dusk eve left her dark Upon the legend of St. Mark. From plaited lawn-frill, fine and thin, She lifted up her soft warm chin, With aching neck and swimming eyes, And dazed with saintly imageries. All was gloom, and silent all, Save now and then the still foot-fall Of one returning homewards late, Past the echoing minster-gate. The clamorous daws, that all the day Above tree-tops and towers play, Pair by pair had gone to rest, Each in its ancient belfry-nest, Where asleep they fall betimes, To music of the drowsy chimes. All was silent, all was gloom, Abroad and in the homely room: Down she sat, poor cheated soul! And struck a lamp from the dismal coal; Leaned forward, with bright drooping hair And slant book, full against the glare. Her shadow, in uneasy guise, Hovered about, a giant size, On ceiling-beam and old oak chair, The parrot's cage, and panel square; And the warm angled winter screen, On which were many monsters seen, Called doves of Siam, Lima mice, And legless birds of Paradise, Macaw, and tender Avadavat, And silken-furred Angora cat. Untired she read, her shadow still Glowered about, as it would fill The room with wildest forms and shades, As though some ghostly queen of spades Had come to mock behind her back, And dance, and ruffle her garments black. Untired she read the legend page, Of holy Mark, from youth to age, On land, on sea, in pagan chains, Rejoicing for his many pains. Sometimes the learned eremite, With golden star, or dagger bright, Referred to pious poesies Written in smallest crow-quill size Beneath the text; and thus the rhyme Was parcelled out from time to time:— "'Gif ye wol stonden[203] hardie wight— Amiddės of the blackė night— Righte in the churchė porch, pardie Ye wol behold a companie Approchen thee full dolourouse: For sooth to sain from everich house Be it in city or villàge Wol come the Phantom and imàge Of ilka[204] gent and ilka carle Whom coldė Deathė hath in parle And wol some day that very year Touchen with foulė venime spear And sadly do them all to die.— Hem all shalt thou see verilie— And everichon shall by thee pass All who must die that year, Alas.' "Als[205] writith he of swevenis,[206] Men han beforne they wake in bliss, Whanne that hir friendės thinke hem bound In crimpèd shroude farre under grounde; And how a litling child mote be A saint er its nativitie, Gif that the modre—God her blesse!— Kepen in solitarinesse, And kissen devoute the holy croce— Of Goddės love, and Sathan's force,— He writith; and thinges many mo, Of swichė thinges I may not show. Bot I must tellen verilie Somdel of Saintė Cicilie, And chieflie what he auctoriethe Of Saintė Markis life and dethe:" At length her constant eyelids come Upon the fervent martyrdom; Then lastly to his holy shrine, Exalt amid the tapers' shine At Venice.... John Keats

Laid in my quiet bed, in study as I were, I saw within my troubled head a heap of thoughts appear; And every thought did shew so lively in mine eyes, That now I sighed, and then I smiled, as cause of thought did rise. I saw the little boy in thought how oft that he Did wish of God, to scape the rod, a tall young man to be. The young man eke that feels his bones with pains opprest, How he would be a rich old man, to live and lie at rest. The rich old man that sees his end draw on so sore, How he would be a boy again, to live so much the more. Whereat full oft I smiled, to see how all these three, From boy to man, from man to boy, would chop and change degree.... Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey

Home, home from the horizon far and clear, Hither the soft wings sweep; Flocks of the memories of the day draw near The dovecote doors of sleep. Oh, which are they that come through sweetest light Of all these homing birds? Which with the straightest and the swiftest flight? Your words to me, your words! Alice Meynell

Come to me in the silence of the night; Come in the speaking silence of a dream; Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright As sunlight on a stream; Come back in tears, O memory, hope, love of finished years. O dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet, Whose wakening should have been in Paradise, Where souls brimfull of love abide and meet; Where thirsting longing eyes Watch the slow door That opening, letting in, lets out no more. Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live My very life again though cold in death: Come back to me in dreams, that I may give Pulse for pulse, breath for breath: Speak low, lean low, As long ago, my love, how long ago. Christina Rossetti

How strange it is to wake And watch while others sleep, Till sight and hearing ache For objects that may keep The awful inner sense Unroused, lest it should mark The life that haunts the emptiness And horror of the dark. How strange the distant bay Of dogs; how wild the note Of cocks that scream for day, In homesteads far remote; How strange and wild to hear The old and crumbling tower, Amidst the darkness, suddenly Take life and speak the hour.... The nightingale is gay, For she can vanquish night; Dreaming, she sings of day, Notes that make darkness bright: But when the refluent gloom Saddens the gaps of song, We charge on her the dolefulness, And call her crazed with wrong. Coventry Patmore

Out in the dark over the snow The fallow fawns invisible go With the fallow doe; And the winds blow Fast as the stars are slow. Stealthily the dark haunts round And, when the lamp goes, without sound At a swifter bound Than the swiftest hound, Arrives, and all else is drowned; And I and star and wind and deer, Are in the dark together,—near, Yet far,—and fear Drums on my ear In that sage company drear. How weak and little is the light, All the universe of sight, Love and delight, Before the might, If you love it not, of night. Edward Thomas

The red flame flowers bloom and die, The embers puff a golden spark. Now and again a horse's eye Shines like a topaz in the dark. A prowling jackal jars the hush, The drowsy oxen chump and sigh— The ghost moon lifts above the bush And creeps across the starry sky. Low in the south the "Cross" is bright, And sleep comes dreamless, undefiled, Here in the blue and silver night, In the star-chamber of the Wild. Crosbie Garstin

I dreamt a Dream! what can it mean? And that I was a maiden Queen Guarded by an Angel mild: Witless woe was ne'er beguiled! And I wept both night and day, And he wiped my tears away; And I wept both day and night, And hid from him my heart's delight. So he took his wings and fled; Then the morn blushed rosy red; I dried my tears, and armed my fears With ten thousand shields and spears. Soon my Angel came again; I was armed, he came in vain; For the time of youth was fled, And grey hairs were on my head. William Blake

Angel spirits of sleep, White-robed, with silver hair, In your meadows fair, Where the willows weep, And the sad moonbeam On the gliding stream Writes her scattered dream: Angel spirits of sleep, Dancing to the weir In the hollow roar Of its waters deep; Know ye how men say That ye haunt no more Isle and grassy shore With your moonlit play; That ye dance not here, White-robed spirits of sleep, All the summer night Threading dances light? Robert Bridges

Once a dream did weave a shade O'er my Angel-guarded bed, That an Emmet lost its way Where on grass methought I lay. Troubled, 'wildered, and forlorn, Dark, benighted, travel-worn, Over many a tangled spray, All heart-broke I heard her say: "O my children! do they cry? Do they hear their father sigh? Now they look abroad to see: Now return and weep for me." Pitying, I dropped a tear; But I saw a glow-worm near, Who replied: "What wailing wight Calls the watchman of the night? "I am set to light the ground, While the beetle goes his round: Follow now the beetle's hum; Little wanderer, hie thee home." William Blake

Awake, awake, my little Boy! Thou wast thy Mother's only joy: Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep? Awake! thy Father does thee keep. "O, what land is the Land of Dreams, What are its mountains, and what are its streams? O Father! I saw my Mother there, Among the Lillies by waters fair. "Among the lambs clothèd in white, She walked with her Thomas in sweet delight. I wept for joy, like a dove I mourn; O! when shall I again return?" Dear Child, I also by pleasant streams Have wandered all night in the Land of Dreams, But tho' calm and warm the waters wide, I could not get to the other side. "Father, O Father! what do we here, In this Land of unbelief and fear? The Land of Dreams is better far Above the light of the Morning Star." William Blake