Classic Poem

I had a dream, one glorious, summer night,
In the rich bosom of imperial June.
Languid I lay upon a fragrant couch,
Golden with amber, festooned wildly o'er
With crimson roses; and the mourning stars
Wept tears of light upon their clustered leaves.
Above me soared the azure vault of heaven,
Vast and majestic; cinctured with that path
Whereby, perchance, the sea-born Venus found
Her way to higher spheres; that path which seems
A coronet of silver, flecked with gems,
And bound upon the forehead of the night.

There, as I lay, the musical south wind
Shook all the roses into murmurous life,
And poured their fragrance o'er me, in a shower
Of crimson mist; and softly, through the mist,
Came a low, sweet, enchanting melody,
A far-off echo from the land of dreams,
Which with delicious languor filled the air,
And steeped in bliss the senses and the soul.
Then rose a shape, a dim and ghostly shape,
Whereto no feature was, nor settled form,
A shadowy splendor, seeming as it came
A pearly summer cloud, shot through and through
With faintest rays of sunset; yet within
A spirit dwelt; and, floating from within,
A murmur trembled sweetly into words: —

" I am the ghost of a most lovely dream,
Which haunted, in old days, a poet's mind,
And long he sought for, wept, and prayed for me;
And searched through all the chambers of his soul,
And searched the secret places of the earth,
The lonely forest and the lonely shore,
And listened to the voices of the sea,
What time the pale stars shone, and midnight cold
Slept on the dark waves whispering at his feet;
And sought the mystery in a human form,
Amid the haunts of men, and found it not;
And looked in woman's fond, bewildering eyes,
And mirrored there his own, and saw no sign:
But only in his sleep I came to him,
And gave him fitful glimpses of my face,
Whereof he after vainly strove to sing,
Weaving his heart to slender threads of gold, —
The rich pulsations of ecstatic song, —
In wild desire to breathe the charm he knew,
Yet might not utter; and, so striving, passed
Unto the quiet of the dreaming woods
And the pathetic silence of the hills;
So died, and came to me. So, evermore,
Through lonely days and passion-haunted nights,
A life of starlight gloom, do poets seek
To rend the mystic veil that covers me,
And evermore they grasp the empty air.
For only in their dreams I come to them,
And give them fitful glimpses of my face,
And lull them, siren-like, with words of hope —
That promise, sometime, to their ravished eyes,
Beauty, the secret of the universe,
God's thought, that gives the soul eternal peace."

Then the voice ceased, and only, through the mist,
The shaken roses murmured, and the wind.