Often I dream you gladly hear
The words I hardly dare to breathe,--
The words that falter in their fear
To tell what throbs beneath.
Often I dream your hand in mine
Falls like a flower at eventide,
And down the path we leave a line
Of footsteps side by side.
But ah, in all my dreams of bliss,
In passion's hunger, fever's drouth,
I never dare to dream of this:
My lips upon your mouth.
And so I dream your big blue eyes,
That look on me with tenderness,
Grow wide, and deep, and sad, and wise,
And dim with dear distress.
III
THE GARLAND OF SLEEP
A wreath of poppy flowers,
With leaves of lotus blended,
Is carved on Life's facade of hours,
From night to night suspended.
Along the columned wall,
From birth's low portal starting,
It flows, with even rise and fall,
To death's dark door of parting.
How short each measured arc,
How brief the columns' number!
The wreath begins and ends in dark,
And leads from sleep to slumber.
The marble garland seems,
With braided leaf and bloom,
To deck the palace of our dreams
As if it were a tomb.
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