Nay, Orpheus gave not to the shades,
To win his love, such minstrelsy,
As my dear love, whose song pervades
The hell from which she set me free.
THE DREAM
Beauty waking from a vivid dream,
All warm, and soft, and tender,
Her eyes with happiness agleam—
Outstretched her arms, so slender.
Her face a picture full of wonder—
Her lips of gushing love asunder.
My lovely mistress, then ensouled,
Wrapped in the gown of rosy sleep,
Thrust back the curtained haze, and rolled
Aside the mists of slumber deep.
Sweetly she murmured to her lover: “Boy,
I dreamed a dream all joy!
There, in a thicket, caught by thorns,
A bird, which morning’s glow adorns,
(It was not hurt, but tangled there,
And struggled to be free)
A yellow bright canary!
It whistled sweet to me—
I thought it was a fairy.
In golden robes so rare,
Until I stretched my hand,
And saw it spread its wings.
Then, not in fairyland,
I thought an elf (though each one sings)
Could thrill so blithe a song,
Or fly away so fast.
I gave it liberty,
To live a life of joys both bright and long,
In one warm summer of days unsurpassed.
This dream of freedom came to me.”
Joy tinted every feature of her face,
Warm blushes spread beneath the lace
Of her fine robe, and pure delight
Sang in the phrases of her speech;
She lay, and told the story bright
In throbbing tones of happiness,
So wonderful was she, I would beseech
Such exquisite dear tenderness—
Soft as the morning sun’s serenest beams—
Would come from all her dreams,
And make my love so rosy,
So warm, so soft and cosy;
So clinging in her kisses,
Resplendent in those blisses
Of trust, and hope, and courage fine,
Which shone in her like gleams of deep red wine!
My soul was never thrilled,
As it was then by her;
My eyes with tears were filled,
For joys so rare!
Love surged like a sun-shaft up,
To drink deep bliss from heaven’s cup!
’Twas like the poet’s joy I feel,
As if her lovely soul were bare,
And mine with it was there
To touch and heal
Itself, and all those blessings gain
Which God sends down on her like sweet, refreshing rain.
Blest be her gracious head,
Smooth be her smiling brow!
May Spring and Summer wed
For Hebe now,
And shower—
Aye! every hour—
The fairest blossoms of the trees
On every fragrant gentle breeze,
To make soft paths for her dear feet,
When she would in her sweet dreams greet
Her fond, adoring mate,
At dreamland’s gate.
THE BOON
What is the dearest wish my soul can make?
What great desire can all this world bestow?
What is the very height of boon I know?
What gift immeasurable I can take?
Is there some precious thing for its own sake
My mind doth crave to make it strong and glow?
Is there some priceless treasure I might show,
And make men from their rosy dreams awake?
No treasure this deep world can give I need.
My dearest wish no mighty king can give;
My great desire—no bauble that will cloy!
I seek no gains on which ambitions feed!
Far more I seek; always to move and live
And have my being in my Hebe’s joy.