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The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see
Are lips—and all thy melody
Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined
Then desolately fall, O God! on my funereal mind
Like starlight on a pall—
Thy heart—thy heart!—I wake and sigh,
And sleep to dream till day
Of the baubles that it may.
In visions of the dark night
I have dream'd of joy departed — But a waking dream of life and light
Hath left me broken-hearted.
Ah! what is not a dream by day
To him whose eyes are cast
Turn'd back upon the past?
That holy dream—that holy dream,
While all the world were chiding, Hath cheered me as a lovely beam
A lonely spirit guiding.
What though that light, through storm and night,
So trembled from afar—
In Truth's day-star?
In spring of youth it was my lot
But when the night had thrown her pall
Yet that terror was not fright,
Death was in that poisonous wave,
And in its gulf a fitting grave
For him who thence could solace bring
To his lone imagining—
Whose solitary soul could make
An Eden of that dim lake.
Romance, who loves to nod and sing,
Of late, eternal Condor years