The Dream

(1840-1897)

SOFT and low a voice breathed o’er me,
Near me did my mother seem;
Flashed a ray of joy before me,
But, alas, it was a dream!

There the murmuring streamlet flowing
Scattered radiant pearls around,
Pure and clear, like crystal glowing--
But it was a dream, unsound.

And my mother's mournful singing
Took me back to childhood's day,
To my mind her kisses bringing--
’Twas a dream and passed away!

To her heart she pressed me yearning,
Wiped her eyes which wet did seem;
And her tears fell on me burning--
Why should it have been a dream?

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