NOW lay thee down to sleep, and dream of me;
Though thou art dead and I am living yet,
Though cool thy couch and sweet thy slumbers be,
Dream—do not quite forget.
Sleep all the autumn, all the winter long,
With never a painted shadow from the past
To haunt thee; only, when the blackbird’s song
Wakens the woods at last,
When the young shoots grow lusty overhead,
Here, where the spring sun smiles, the spring wind grieves,
When budding violets close above thee spread
Their small heart-shapen leaves,
Pass, O Belovèd, to dreams from slumber deep;
Recount the store that mellowing time endears,
Tread, through the measureless mazes of thy sleep,
Our old unchangeful years.
Lie still and listen—while thy sheltering tree
Whispers of suns that rose, of suns that set—
For far-off echoes of the spring and me.
Dream—do not quite forget.
Rosamund Marriot Watson.
A GOLDEN HOUR.
A BECKONING spirit of gladness seemed afloat,
That lightly danced in laughing air before us:
The earth was all in tune, and you a note
Of Nature’s happy chorus.
’Twas like a vernal morn, yet overhead
The leafless boughs across the lane were knitting:
The ghost of some forgotten spring, we said,
O’er winter’s world comes flitting.
Or was it spring herself, that, gone astray,
Beyond the alien frontier chose to tarry?
Or but some bold outrider of the May,
Some April emissary?
The apparition faded on the air,
Capricious and incalculable comer.—
Wilt thou too pass, and leave my chill days bare,
And fall’n my phantom summer?
William Watson.