Because her eyes were far too deep <br />And holy for a laugh to leap <br />Across the brink where sorrow tried <br />To drown within the amber tide; <br />Because the looks, whose ripples kissed <br />The trembling lids through tender mist, <br />Were dazzled with a radiant gleam-- <br />Because of this I called her 'Dream.' <br /> <br />Because the roses growing wild <br />About her features when she smiled <br />Were ever dewed with tears that fell <br />With tenderness ineffable; <br />Because her lips might spill a kiss <br />That, dripping in a world like this, <br />Would tincture death's myrrh-bitter stream <br />To sweetness--so I called her 'Dream.' <br /> <br />Because I could not understand <br />The magic touches of a hand <br />That seemed, beneath her strange control, <br />To smooth the plumage of the soul <br />And calm it, till, with folded wings, <br />It half forgot its flutterings, <br />And, nestled in her palm, did seem <br />To trill a song that called her 'Dream.' <br /> <br />Because I saw her, in a sleep <br />As dark and desolate and deep <br />And fleeting as the taunting night <br />That flings a vision of delight <br />To some lorn martyr as he lies <br />In slumber ere the day he dies-- <br />Because she vanished like a gleam <br />Of glory, do I call her 'Dream.'<br /><br />James Whitcomb Riley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dream-275/
