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DreamBecause her eyes were far too deepAnd holy for a laugh to leapAcross the brink where sorrow triedTo drown within the amber tide;Because the looks, whose ripples kissedThe trembling lids through tender mist,Were dazzled with a radiant gleam--Because of this I called her 'Dream.'Because the roses growing wildAbout her features when she smiledWere ever dewed with tears that fellWith tenderness ineffable;Because her lips might spill a kissThat, dripping in a world like this,Would tincture death's myrrh-bitter streamTo sweetness--so I called her 'Dream.'Because I could not understandThe magic touches of a handThat seemed, beneath her strange control,To smooth the plumage of the soulAnd calm it, till, with folded wings,It half forgot its flutterings,And, nestled in her palm, did seemTo trill a song that called her 'Dream.'Because I saw her, in a sleepAs dark and desolate and deepAnd fleeting as the taunting nightThat flings a vision of delightTo some lorn martyr as he liesIn slumber ere the day he dies--Because she vanished like a gleamOf glory, do I call her 'Dream.' James Whitcomb Riley
