It is not the real thing
But you may keep it always.”
Dream
I SEE a spirit
Young and eager,
Beautiful, too, I think,
(Although I cannot see it clearly)
It is, by right of its own being,
One with all lovely, youthful things;
And they, its age-old kindred,
Welcome it
Saying, “Come, you too are one of us!”
. . . . . . .
This spirit is my own happy ghost—
But I, myself,—alas!
Perhaps
THERE was a man, once, and a woman
Whose love was so entire
That an angel, watching them,
Said wistfully, “Would I were no angel
But a mortal,
Loving so, and so beloved!”
. . . . Yet, when these two mated,
A muddied drop, from some forgotten vial of ancestry,
Brought them a child whose mind was dark;
Who lived—and never called them by their names . . .
. . . . They tended her
For twenty years.
Only when she died
Did they weep, whispering,
“Why?”
The years could find no answer,
Though they went questioning
Until the end.
. . . . . . .
Still wondering
They wandered out into the other country . . . .
It was lonely there,
Being parted from familiar things,
And there was no one to answer questions,
But, suddenly,
(As a wind blows or a swallow flies against the sun)
Came a young girl—eager!
She ran to them,
Calling dear names,
(Names that would open heaven)
“Who are you?” they entreated, trembling . . . .
But they knew!—
Had they not dreamed her so
For twenty years?