 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
396
DREAMS.
I.
Come to me in a dream, O Love of mine!
Come to me, Sweetest, from thy far-off place,—
Stand close and lean above me thy fair face:
Within my fingers let thy fingers twine,
And kiss mine eye-lids till they quiver and shine
With passionate joy, and all sleep's mystic ways
Are lighted with the bright propitious rays
That beam from Love's own moon, — Love's star divine.
Come to me, Sweetest, from thy far-off place,—
Stand close and lean above me thy fair face:
Within my fingers let thy fingers twine,
And kiss mine eye-lids till they quiver and shine
With passionate joy, and all sleep's mystic ways
Are lighted with the bright propitious rays
That beam from Love's own moon, — Love's star divine.
O Love, for God's love, and for love of love,
Send forth thy soul across the weary way,
And find me, where through sleep I blindly rove,
Seeking my buried treasure, — ah, but stay
Here at my side till I have felt again
The jubilant blood exult in every vein!
Send forth thy soul across the weary way,
And find me, where through sleep I blindly rove,
Seeking my buried treasure, — ah, but stay
Here at my side till I have felt again
The jubilant blood exult in every vein!
II.
Sometimes I seem to find thee in my dreams,—
I do not hear thy voice; nor do I see
Thy face; but, Sweet, I feel all silently
Thy Presence watch my sleep. Sometimes it seems
I catch from far the shining of Love's streams,
Or hear once more his blithe, dear minstrelsy;
But when I would draw near those streams and thee,
They mock my sight with their elusive gleams:
I do not hear thy voice; nor do I see
Thy face; but, Sweet, I feel all silently
Thy Presence watch my sleep. Sometimes it seems
I catch from far the shining of Love's streams,
Or hear once more his blithe, dear minstrelsy;
But when I would draw near those streams and thee,
They mock my sight with their elusive gleams:
And then my spirit, baffled in desire,
Possesses only the blind realm of Sleep,
And wakes to face the hours that wound and tire,
Wherein no more the happy pulses leap,—
To see the hostile years rise, steep on steep,
While from no height shines forth Love's answering fires.
Possesses only the blind realm of Sleep,
And wakes to face the hours that wound and tire,
Wherein no more the happy pulses leap,—
To see the hostile years rise, steep on steep,
While from no height shines forth Love's answering fires.
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |