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| II. |
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 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
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 | |