Dreams Poem by Grace Greenwood

THERE was a season when I loved
The calm and holy night, —
When, like yon silvery evening star,
Just trembling on our sight,
My spirit through its heaven of dreams
Went floating forth in light.

Night is the time when Nature seems
God's silent worshipper,
And ever with a chastened heart,
In unison with her,
I laid me on my peaceful couch,
The day's dull cares resigned,
And let my thoughts fold up like flowers,
In the twilight of the mind.
Fast round me closed the shades of sleep;
Then burst upon my sight
Visions of glory and of love,
The stars of slumber's night!
Dreams, wondrous dreams, that far around
Did such rich radiance fling,
As the sudden first unfurling
Of a young angel's wing.
Then sometimes blessed beings came,
Parting the midnight skies,
And bore me to their shining homes,
The bowers of Paradise;
I felt my worn, world-wearied soul
Bathed in divine repose,
My earth-chilled heart, in the airs of heaven,
Unfolding as a rose.

Nor were my dreams celestial all,
For oft along my way
Clustered the scenes and joys of home,
The loves of every day;
Soft after angel-music still
The voices round my hearth, —
Sweet after Paradisean flowers
The violets of earth.
But now I dread the night, — it holds
Within its weary bounds
Strife, griefs and fears, red battle-fields,
And spectre-haunted grounds!

One night there sounded through my dreams
A trumpet's stirring peal,
And then methought I went forth armed,
And clad in glittering steel,
And sprang upon a battle steed,
And led a warrior band,
And we swept, a flood of fire and death,
Victorious through the land!
O, what wild rapture 't was to mark
My serried ranks advance,
And see amid the foe go down
Banner and plume and lance!
The living trampled o'er the dead, —
The fallen, line on line,
Were crushed like grapes at vintage-time,
And blood was poured like wine!
My sword was dripping to its hilt,
And this small, girlish hand,
Planted the banner, lit the torch,
And waved the stern command.
How swelled and burned within my heart
Fierce hate and fiery pride, —
My very soul rode like a bark
On the battle's stormy tide!

My pitying and all woman's soul!
O, no, it was not mine!
Perchance mine slumbered, or had left
Awhile its earthly shrine;
So the spirit of a Joan d'Arc
Stole in my sleeping frame,
And wrote her history on my heart,
In words of blood and flame.

My dead are with me in my dreams,
Rise from their still, lone home, —
But are they as I loved them here?
O Heaven, 't is thus they come!
Silent and cold, — the pulseless form
In burial garments dressed,
The pale hands holding burial flowers,
Close folded on the breast!

My living, — they in whose tried hearts
My wild, impassioned love
Foldeth its wings contentedly,
And nestles as a dove, —
They come, they hold me in their arms;
My heart, with joy oppressed,
Seems panting 'neath its blessed weight
And swooning in my breast;
My eyes look up through tears of bliss.
Like flowers through dews of even,
There's 'a painful fulness in my lips,
Till the kiss of love is given; —
When, sudden, their fresh glowing lips
Are colorless and cold,
And an icy, shrouded corse is all
My shuddering arms enfold!

Have I my guardian angels grieved,
That they have taken flight?
Or frown'st thou on me, O my God,
In the visions of the night?
Yet with a child's fond faith I rest
Still on thy fatherhood, —
Speak peace unto my troubled dreams,
Thou merciful and good!
And, O, if cares and griefs must come,
And throng my humble way,
Then let me, strengthened and refreshed,
Strive with them in the day,
This glorious world which thou hast made
Spread out in bloom before me,
Thy blessed sunshine on my path,
Thy radiant skies hung o'er me.
But when, like ghosts of the sun's lost rays,
Come down the moonbeams pale,
And the dark earth lies like an Eastern bride
Beneath her silvery veil,
Then let the night, with its silence deep,
Its dews and its starry gleams,
Be peace, and rest, and love! — O God,
Smile on me in my dreams!