And dream of joy beyond the gates of death.




XIX

THE DREAM


Was it a dream, when, through the spirit's gloom,
I saw the yearning face of Beauty shine--
Soft in its human aspect, though divine,
Pleading for human love, though armed with doom?
And was it but a dream, that faint perfume,
Blent of loose tress and soft lips joined to mine,
Those fair white arms that did my neck entwine,
That neck's sweet warmth, that smooth cheek's floral bloom?

Ah! was it true, or was it but a dream
Of bliss that scarce to mortal hearts is given?
Ah! was it thou, Belovèd, or some bright
Phantom of thee that made thy presence seem,
Rich with the warmth of Life, the light of Heaven,
To hover o'er the realms where both unite?




XX