 | Beads from a Rosary |  |
107
SO, THE DREAMS DEPART.
So, the dreams depart—
So their fading phantoms flee,
And the sharp reality,
Now must act its part.
So their fading phantoms flee,
And the sharp reality,
Now must act its part.
I have wandered for a time,
Through a fair and sunny clime;
I have tasted waters, far
Sweeter than all others are,
Waters, gushing from the springs
Of the soul's imaginings;—
Now their fount is sealed—for aye?
Credulous hope doth whisper, nay,
But the dreams depart.
Through a fair and sunny clime;
I have tasted waters, far
Sweeter than all others are,
Waters, gushing from the springs
Of the soul's imaginings;—
Now their fount is sealed—for aye?
Credulous hope doth whisper, nay,
But the dreams depart.
108
Fainter, fainter, they are growing,
Like the rainbow, when the flowing
Of the shower hath ceased;
Fainter, fainter, like the singing
Of the bird, through ether winging,
From the cage released.
They are gone, quite gone,—for aye?
Credulous hope doth whisper, nay—
Though they all depart.
Like the rainbow, when the flowing
Of the shower hath ceased;
Fainter, fainter, like the singing
Of the bird, through ether winging,
From the cage released.
They are gone, quite gone,—for aye?
Credulous hope doth whisper, nay—
Though they all depart.
Shall I trust thee, hope? Ah, me!
Thou art but a phantasy;
Canst thou bring them back again?
I must answer, nay—
All thy promises are vain,
When the finger of decay
Passeth over heart and brain,
When the sun of life doth wane,
And its dreams depart.
Thou art but a phantasy;
Canst thou bring them back again?
I must answer, nay—
All thy promises are vain,
When the finger of decay
Passeth over heart and brain,
When the sun of life doth wane,
And its dreams depart.
109
Shall I trust, thee, then?—Ah, now
Thou dost wear an altered brow:
Thou art gazing up on high,
With an angel's mien—
Thou'rt no more a phantasy,
Hope, as thou hast been.
Yes, I read thy thought aright—
Mine doth follow in it's flight—
I will trust thee;—thou dost soar
From earth's feebleness away,
To that calm, untroubled shore,
Where the soul's imaginings
Gush from ever flowing springs—
Where its strength doth ne'er decay,
Nor it's dreams depart.
Thou dost wear an altered brow:
Thou art gazing up on high,
With an angel's mien—
Thou'rt no more a phantasy,
Hope, as thou hast been.
Yes, I read thy thought aright—
Mine doth follow in it's flight—
I will trust thee;—thou dost soar
From earth's feebleness away,
To that calm, untroubled shore,
Where the soul's imaginings
Gush from ever flowing springs—
Where its strength doth ne'er decay,
Nor it's dreams depart.
| Beads from a Rosary | |