A grieving speaker weeps openly, then explains: he has just woken from a dream so vivid and lovely it leaves him more weary than before. In the dream, a woman he loved—now in the grave—appears alive, her cheek glowing, surrounded by golden light and flowers. She plays a lyre wreathed with lambent fire and amaranth, and stands among seraphs in everlasting radiance. He strains to reach her, but the whole golden vision melts away as he wakes.
The waking world feels doubly heavy. Yet he admits he cannot envy her, though she is blessed and he is dreary. That refusal suggests a love so deep it won’t wish her back to his sorrow, or a grief too stunned to begrudge her peace. The mood is wistful and aching: a fleeting glimpse of heaven only deepens the loss, leaving a quiet, sorrowful resignation. The Latin epigraph, “You lead back our dreams,” hints that the dream is a painful return to what he has lost.