Sometime, sometime, we will go, my Love,
When winter loosens to spring,
And all the spirits of Joy are ajog,
After the wild-bird’s wing,—
When winter and sorrow have opened their doors
To set love’s prisoners free,
Over the mountains of woe, my Love,
Over the hills of dree.
And when we reach there we will know
The faces we knew of yore,
The lips that kissed, the hands that clasped,
When memory loosens her store,
And we will drink to the long dead years,
In that inn of the golden gleam,
Over the mountains of sleep, my Love,
Over the hills of dream.
And all the joys we missed, my Love,
And all the hopes we knew,
The dreams of life we dreamed in vain,
When youth’s red blossoms blew;
And all the hearts that throbbed for us,
In the past so sunny and fair,
We will meet and greet in that golden land,
Over the hills of care.
Over the mountains of sleep, my Love,
Over the hills of dream,
Beyond the walls of care and fate,
Where the loves and memories teem,
We come to a land of fancy free,
Where hearts forget to weep,
Over the mountains of dream, my Love,
Over the hills of sleep.
Morning
When I behold how out of ruined night
Filled with all weirds of haunted ancientness,
And dreams and phantasies of pale distress,
Is builded, beam by beam, the splendid light,
The opalescent glory, gem bedight,
Of dew-emblazoned morning; when I know
Such wondrous hopes, such luminous beauties grow
From out earth’s shades of sadness and affright;
O, then, my heart, amid thy questioning fear,
Dost thou not whisper: “He who buildeth thus
From wrecks of dark such wonders at his will,
Can re-create from out death’s night for us
The marvels of a morning gladder still
Than ever trembled into beauty here?”