There, summer dawns, in sleep I stirred,
And wove into my fair dream’s woof
The chattering of a martin bird,
Or rain-drops pattering on the roof.
Or half awake, and half in fear,
I saw the spider spinning near
His pretty castle where the fly
Should come to ruin by-and-by.
And there I fashioned from my brain
Youth’s shining structures in the air.
I did not wholly build in vain,
For some were lasting, firm and fair.
And I am one who lives to say
My life has held more gold than gray,
And that the splendor of the real
Surpassed my early dream’s ideal.
But still I love to wander back
To that old time and that old place;
To tread my way o’er memory’s track,
And catch the early morning grace,
In that quaint room beneath the rafter,
That echoed to my childish laughter;
To dream again the dreams that grew
More beautiful as they came true.
THE MOTHER-IN-LAW.
SHE was my dream’s fulfilment and my joy,
This lovely woman whom you call your wife.
You sported at your play, an idle boy,
When I first felt the stirring of her life
Within my startled being. I was thrilled
With such intensity of love, it filled
The very universe! But words are vain—
No man can comprehend that wild, sweet pain.
You smiled in childhood’s slumber while I felt
The agonies of labour; and the nights
I, weeping, o’er the little sufferer knelt,
You, wandering on through dreamland’s fair delights
Flung out your lengthening limbs and slept and grew;
While I, awake, saved this dear wife for you.
She was my heart’s loved idle and my pride.
I taught her all those graces which you praise,
I dreamed of coming years, when at my side
She should lend luster to my fading days,
Should cling to me (as she to you clings now),
The young fruit hanging to the withered bough.
But lo! the blossom was so fair a sight,
You plucked it from me—for your own delight.
Well, you are worthy of her—oh, thank God—
And yet I think you do not realize
How burning were the sands o’er which I trod,
To bear and rear this woman you so prize.
It was no easy thing to see her go—
Even into the arms of the one she worshiped so.
How strong, how vast, how awful seems the power
Of this new love which fills a maiden’s heart,
For one who never bore a single hour
Of pain for her; which tears her life apart
From all its moorings, and controls her more
Than all the ties the years have held before;
Which crowns a stranger with a kingly grace—
And give the one who bore her—second place!