Minuscula Lyrics of Nature, Art and Love. By Francis William Bourdillon |
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IV
And all my dream of her—is that but dreaming?
Was it not heaven at her side to be?
Or this too, is it as a mirage gleaming,
A desert that, looked back on, seems a sea?
A desert, that day? Nay then, what redeeming
Hath this day?—Speak, dull memory! Was not she
The vision of the Grail, all heaven streaming
About her, for all white souls, and for me?
Was it not heaven at her side to be?
Or this too, is it as a mirage gleaming,
A desert that, looked back on, seems a sea?
A desert, that day? Nay then, what redeeming
Hath this day?—Speak, dull memory! Was not she
The vision of the Grail, all heaven streaming
About her, for all white souls, and for me?
Not so: though now a light is on those hours,
Most were not golden that I had with her,
Many were maddened.—Peace! my dream is now
More true than memory; 'tis a dream of flowers;
That was a day of flowers: no wind did stir,
And I was with her 'neath the willowbough.
Most were not golden that I had with her,
Many were maddened.—Peace! my dream is now
More true than memory; 'tis a dream of flowers;
That was a day of flowers: no wind did stir,
And I was with her 'neath the willowbough.
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