Sara Teasdale’s speaker addresses someone who transformed her empty daydreams into real happiness. Those “empty dreams” were not bleak; they were wide, shadowy inner rooms where her thoughts could roam, hide, and play. Once filled with tenderness, nobility, April, and sun, they become almost too rich with joy to contain even a song.
But the poem’s final turn is quietly sad. Now that the dreams have come true, the speaker’s thoughts have lost their old hiding place. There is nothing left to long for or imagine. The mood is tender and wistful rather than purely grateful: fulfillment is lovely, but it has closed the doors of those sweet, shadowy dream-houses and left her inner life strangely idle.