And with it, all joys, save but you, who are dearest and best,
Wakeful—sighing my name?
Sometimes as I sleep, the sweet rain flickers over my head,
And smiling, I dream of the tears that your sorrow has shed;
Then I sigh and awake.
For the dreams of the grave are the dreams that have died in the morn,
And their ghosts alone haunt the cold earth where their maker was born,
For a woman's sweet sake.
Perhaps you are singing—and winding the garlands of May;
Not mine be the hand to withhold you the golden to-day,