DREAMS.
Reading edition
Yes, there were pleasant voices yesternight, Humming within mine ear a tale of truth, Reminding me of days ere the sad blight Of care had dimmed the brightness of my youth: Yes, they were pleasant voices; but, forsooth, They threw a kind of melancholy charm Around my heart; as if in vengeful ruth, Our very dreams have knowledge of the harm Ourselves do to ourselves, without the least alarm! I love such dreams, for at my couch there stood One who, in other lands, with magic spell, Had taught my untaught heart to love the good, The pure, the holy, which in her did dwell. It was a lovely image, and too well I do remember me the fatal hour, When that bright image—but I may not tell How deep the thraldom, absolute the power— My very dreams decide it was her only dower. Sandwich Islands.
What are our dreams? A sort of fancy sketches, Limned on the mind's retina, with a grace More subtle than the wakeful artist catches, And tinted with a more ethereal trace. Our dreams annihilate both time and space, And waft us, with magnetic swiftness, back O'er an oblivious decade to the place Where youth's fond visions clustered o'er our track; Of youth's fond hopes decayed, alas! there is no lack! I love such dreams, for they are more than real; They have a passion in them in whose birth The heart receives again its beau ideal— Its Platonized embodiment of worth. Call ye them dreams! then what a mortal dearth Throws its gaunt shadow o'er our little life! Our very joy is mockery of mirth, And our quiescence agony of strife: If dreams are naught but dreams, what is our real life? E. O. H.