Oh the dream,

Warm, wild, beautiful,—born of midsummer.

No, it was April gave it; no, it was May!

It was the whole round year,

Days, months, filled with it,

Hours Eden inspired.

Moments astral born,

Life

Fused, swathed, held in its mystery,

Perfect content in the present,

Ecstasy at the thought of a future.

Oh the dream....

Hush, I will sing of it....

I was a child, knee-deep in the rugged daisies;

Small head level with bright bold heads tossed free.

Brown eyes following farm and meadow mazes:

Little heart one with nature, flower, and tree;

Friend with the birds.... Then childhood passed, on a sudden as pure dawn’s haze is

Kissed to glorious morning, and all eyes see,

Standing young as the June, little heart’s pulse set free

Throbbed to the song that the soul of the whole world’s lays is:—

A child in the home-land meadows,

Belovèd, I dreamed of thee.

Once I walked in the heather,

Cliffs sheer downward touched the breast of the sea.

Meadows ’round me stretched and kissed together,

Met in oceans of gold grain feather

Mad with poppies, red as blood may be.

Summer’s glory to glory ran;—nor sense knew whether

It were godliest born, the blue of the sea

Or the whispering ocean of fields, as shoreless!

Then the tether

Of time slipped loose, and Future showed to me,

Cliff-high,—sea-girt,—there in the Norman weather

All of my youth Belovèd,

I dreamed of thee.

It was in the heart of winter cold,

When the moon is old,

And snow on the lea.

I leaned from my window

And heard the sea

Ring like brass, when deep is tolled

The bourdon of Christ’s nativity.

The Christmas world its page unrolled

For my pagan eyes to see.

Sheep held close in their sparkling fold,

And the ice-mailed tree

Glistened, ... as tho’ God leaned, and set

Crystal tapers, with diamond fret;

A holy festal tree made it,

Whose candles the moon lit!

I smelled frankincense, from censers gold

Shadow-swung to a litany

Glorious!...

Then wild, and bold,

A Christmas storm swept over me.

I leaned out from my parapet,

Cliff-high tower, that keeps the sea:—

Arms and breast on the sill icy,

Warm arms aching to clasp and fold

One who close on my breast should be!

Pagan, thus in the Night Holy,

Breaking form of the ancient mould,

I saw God’s one star poise, and swim

Over the birth of Love, in Him,

But Belovèd ... I dreamed of thee.