But yesterweek where the cloud waves rolled
Down a wind-swept sky that was grey, and cold,
Sailed the hunter's moon,—a galleon of gold!
And now in the very depth of the night
It is just a little flame, blown and white,
Or a broken-winged moth on a weary flight.
But the steadfast trees at the forest rim,
And the pines in places scented and dim,
Still wait for one hunter, and watch for him.
And the wind in the branches whispers, "Why?"
And the yellow leaves that go rustling by,
Say only, "Remember," and sigh,—and sigh.
DREAMS
Keep thou thy dreams—though joy should pass thee by;
Hold to the rainbow beauty of thy thought;
It is for dreams that men will oft-times die,—
And count the passing pain of death as nought.
Keep though thy dreams, though faith should faint and fail,
And time should loose thy fingers from the creeds,
The vision of the Christ will still avail
To lead thee on to truth and tender deeds.
Keep thou thy dreams all the winter's cold,
When weeds are withered, and the garden grey,
Dream thou of roses with their hearts of gold,—
Beckon to summers that are on their way.
Keep thou thy dreams—the tissue of all wings
Is woven first of them; from dreams are made
The precious and imperishable things,
Whose loveliness lives on, and does not fade.