DAY-DREAM.
Here, in the heart of the hills, I lie,
Nothing but me 'twixt earth and sky—
An amethyst and an emerald stone
Hung and hollowed for me alone!
Is it a dream, or can it be
That there is life apart from me?—
A larger world than the circling bound
Of light and color that lap me round?
Drowsily, dully, through my brain,
Like some recurrent, vague refrain,
A world of fancy comes and goes—
Shadowy pleasures, shadowy woes.
Spectral toils and troubles seem
Fashioned out of this foolish dream:
Round my charmèd quiet creep
Phantom creatures that laugh and weep.
Nay, I know they are meaningless,
Visions of utter idleness:
Nothing was, nor ever will be,
Save the hills and the heavens and me.
KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD.