 | Song in September |  |
82
THE WORST
Nightly, bereft of Mercy's beam,
I dreamed the thrice-bewildering dream
That shakes the turrets of my brain
Beneath a tempest of disdain.
I dreamed the thrice-bewildering dream
That shakes the turrets of my brain
Beneath a tempest of disdain.
At last the lamp of mercy burned:
Away from wretchedness I turned,
And in a Canaan of delight
Found grapes and honey rush to sight.
Away from wretchedness I turned,
And in a Canaan of delight
Found grapes and honey rush to sight.
My bed a miracle confessed!
For in it breathed a girlish breast,
And on my pillow blossomed fair
The face that never can be there.
For in it breathed a girlish breast,
And on my pillow blossomed fair
The face that never can be there.
‘Are you awake?’ I said to her;
‘Are you awake, my Lavender?’
But as I spoke, from dreamland's mesh
The girl flew back again to flesh.
‘Are you awake, my Lavender?’
But as I spoke, from dreamland's mesh
The girl flew back again to flesh.
83
Then loud I cried to Agony,
‘Take not thy sport by maiming me!
Pierce with the thrice-bewildering dart,
But never show that lovely heart!’
‘Take not thy sport by maiming me!
Pierce with the thrice-bewildering dart,
But never show that lovely heart!’
| Song in September | |