Believe me, this was true last night,Tho' it is false to-day.-- A.M.F. Robinson.A fair dream to my chamber flew:Such a crowd of folk that stirred,Jested, fluttered; only you,You alone of all that band,Calm and silent, spake no word.Only once you neared my place,And your hand one moment's spaceSought the fingers of my hand;Your eyes flashed to mine; I knewAll was well between us two.On from dream to dream I past,But the first sweet vision castMystic radiance o'er the last.
You glow in my heartLike the flames of uncounted candles.But when I go to warm my hands,My clumsiness overturns the light,And then I stumbleAgainst the tables and chairs.
The big mountains sit still in the afternoon lightShadows in their lap;The bees roll round in the wild-thyme with delight.We sitting here among the cranberriesSo still in the gapOf rock, distilling our memoriesAre sinners! Strange! The bee that blundersAgainst me goes off with a laugh.A squirrel cocks his head on the fence, and wondersWhat about sin?--For, it seemsThe mountains haveNo shadow of us on their snowy forehead of dreamsAs they ought to have. They rise above usDreamingFor ever. One even might think that they love us.Little red cranberries cheek to cheek,