A LOST IDEAL
A mocking bird from out the South
Sang through my dream, he said,
But when the dream was done I heard
A woman’s voice instead.
A woman’s voice that strove to wake
The joyous tones I missed;
But only breathed a sigh across
The lips that pain had kissed.
A deep perfume of tropic flowers
Stole through my dream, he said;
But when I sought the blossoms bright
I saw a face instead.
A woman’s face where Nature wrote
The score of some grand hymn,
Then blotting it with life and toil
Left all the record dim.
And in the dream my soul thrice turned
To greet a comrade call;
But when I woke the gray of night
Lay silent over all.