Our loved ones leave us; so we all grow fonder
Of their world than of ours; for here we seem
Alone in haunted houses, and we wonder
Which is the waking life, and which the dream.
AUTO-DA-FÉ
(he explains.)
Oh, just burning up some old papers,
They do make a good deal of smoke:
That's right, Dolly, open the window;
They'll blaze if you give them a poke.
I've got a lot more in the closet;
Just look at the dust! What a mess!
Why, read it, of course, if you want to,
It's only a letter, I guess.
(she reads.)
Just me, and my pipe, and the fire-light,
Whose mystical circles of red
Protect me alone with the shadows;
The smoke-wreaths engarland my head;
And the strains of a waltz, half forgotten,
The favorite waltz of the year,
Played softly by fairy musicians,
Chime sweetly and low on my ear.
The smoke-cloud floats thickly around me,
All perfumed and white, till it seems
A bride-veil magicians have woven
To honor the bride of my dreams.
Float on, dreamy waltz, through my fancies,
My thoughts in your harmony twine!
Draw near, phantom face, in your beauty,
Look deep, phantom eyes, into mine.
Sweet lips—crimson buds half unfolded—
Give breath to the exquisite voice,
That, waking the strands of my being
To melody, bids me rejoice.
Dream, soul, till the world's dream is ended!
Dream, heart, of your beautiful past!
For dreaming is better than weeping,
And all things but dreams at the last.