Page:Roses in Rain, by Lilian Wooster Greaves, 1910.pdf/54



Angel of dreams, how beautiful thou art, Standing within the portals of my heart; Folding thy silken wings awhile to rest, Seeking a biding-place within my breast. Gentle art thou—I think thee wondrous kind As thou revealest to my sleepless mind (Freed from the prostrate form by slumber bound) Fair flowers that bloom in Hope’s enchanted ground. Plants all too frail and delicate to bear Reason’s fierce winds and Logic’s noonday glare. Fancy’s blithe birds, who daily silence keep, Now fill with melody the halls of sleep. The mind, unfettered by its bonds of clay, Listens enchanted to each magic lay.

Angel of dreams, how oft thy silent hand Conjures bright scenes as with a fairy’s wand— My absent lover, sighed for thro’ the day, Kisses my lips and promises to stay. The long-sought letter from a distant land All writ in golden ink is in my hand. The home and friends Fate called me to resign At thy soft whisper, once again are mine.