A Dream
Published online by Cambridge University Press: 20 January 2022
Summary
Thou art not one of the living now;
And yet a form appears
At times before me, such as thou
In days of former years:
It rises, to my spirit's sight,
In thoughts by day, in dreams by night.
Nor can I choose, but fondly bless
A shade, if shade it be,
Which, with such soft expressiveness,
Recalls one thought of thee:
I own it, in itself, ideal;
Its influence o’er my heart is real.
I grant that dreams are idle things,
Yet have I known a few,
To which my faithful memory clings;
They seem’d so sweet and true,
That, let who will the fault condemn,
It was a grief to wake from them.
One such came lately in the hours
To nightly slumber due;
It pictur’d forth no fairy bowers
To fancy's raptur’d view;
It had not much of marvels strange,
Nor aught of wild and frequent change:—
But all seem’d real.—Aye! as much,
As now the page I trace
Is palpable to sight and touch:
Then how could doubt have place?
Yet was I not from doubt exempt,
But ask’d myself if still I dreamt.
I felt I did; but, spite of this,
Even thus in dreamsto meet,
Had much, too much of dearest bliss,
Though not enough to cheat:
I knew the vision might not stay,
And yet I bless’d its transient sway.
But oh, thylook!— It was not one
That earthly features wear;
Nor was it aught to fear or shun,
As fancied spectres are:
’Twas gentle, pure, and passionless,
Yet full of heavenly tenderness.
One thing was strange.—It seem’d to me
We were not long alone;
But many more were circling thee,
Whom thou on earth hadst known:
Who seem’d as greeting thy return
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- Information
- Selected Poems of Bernard Barton, the 'Quaker Poet' , pp. 75 - 77Publisher: Anthem PressPrint publication year: 2020