Page:Landon in The New Monthly 1835.pdf/7



Sleep hath its own world, And a wild realm of wide reality; And dreams in their development have breath, And tears and tortures, and the touch of joy. They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts."

thee, love, I was dreaming Beneath the moon's pale light; The trees were silver seeming, And the meadow grass was white.

The lark below was sleeping,— He asks, whene'er he springs From the dewy clover's keeping, For sunshine on his wings.

The leaves hung dark and shivering O'er the colourless dim flowers; And the aspen's restless quivering Alone disturbed the hours.

Pale were the roses, stooping Beneath the heavy dews, And the wan acacia drooping Forgot its morning hues.

Perhaps my sleep might borrow Its likeness from the shade; For the shadow of some sorrow Upon my soul was laid.

We seem'd to be together, And yet we seem'd apart; In sleep,—I question'd whether Mine was the sleeper's part.

Pale faces gather'd round us,— The faces of the dead; With cold white wreaths they bound us,— We shudder'd, and they fled.

Next came a crowd; I lost thee Amid the rapid throng, While hurrying strangers cross'd me, And forced my steps along.

Strange mirth was there,—but lonely; It was not made for me: I sought for thee—thee only,— I sought in vain for thee!

Again we met,—but alter'd:    Thy brow was not the same: I strove to speak, but falter'd,— I could not breathe thy name.

And then I saw thee leave me, And wear another's yoke! In sleep thou couldst deceive me! But ah! at once I woke. L. E. L.