Dreams

Deep from the sleep-masked soul a ray
Steals forth of buried times,
And blurred by changings of to-day
Pale Mem'ry wakes her chimes.
They sound with silver voices sweet,
And all her din-browed throng
Moves softly and with soundless feet
Their olden path along.
Adown dead faces course hot tears
That burn upon the cheek,
And, brimming with the loves of years,
Their lips all trembling speak.
Till fair and light doth Fancy sweep,
With thousand sprites and wiles,
That, mingling, twirl in magic leap
Thro Memory's grave denies.
Flow'rs bloom supernal 'neath their tread;
Lute tinklings fill the trees;
The gorgeous sun shines golden red,
And perfumes clasp the breeze.
Then Passion, with her blazing mien,
And earnest, panting crew,
Steps in to dance the lines between,
And pulse the heart-strings through.
Sudden, amid its shadow-bliss
A shroud o'er all's unfurled,
And Time, with envious, serpent hiss
Awakes us to the world.
And are these unrealities
Each form and lucent beam
That fled but as existence flees?
Are these or life a dream?
For is't not even thus as sweeps
Life's ship o'er waters blind,
That Passion glares and Mem'ry weeps
Mid Fancy's sons of wind?
What then's this spirit-life that flies,
While visioned phantasms roll?
Sees it but as thro others eyes?
Is it a deeper soul?
We ll know not till uplifts the dark,
And Life and Dreams shall flee;
For kindred waves float each frail bark--
Passion, Fancy, Memory.