A fair dream to my chamber flew: Such a crowd of folk that stirred, Jested, fluttered; only you, You alone of all that band, Calm and silent, spake no word. Only once you neared my place, And your hand one moment’s space Sought the fingers of my hand; Your eyes flashed to mine; I knew All was well between us two. * * * * * On from dream to dream I past, But the first sweet vision cast Mystic radiance o’er the last. * * * * * When I woke the pale night lay Still, expectant of the day; All about the chamber hung Tender shade of twilight gloom; The fair dream hovered round me, clung To my thought like faint perfume:-- Like sweet odours, such as cling To the void flask, which erst encloses Attar of rose; or the pale string Of amber which has lain with roses. _On the Threshold._ [Illustration: text decoration] O God, my dream! I dreamed that you were dead; Your mother hung above the couch and wept Whereon you lay all white, and garlanded With blooms of waxen whiteness. I had crept Up to your chamber-door, which stood ajar, And in the doorway watched you from afar, Nor dared advance to kiss your lips and brow. I had no part nor lot in you, as now; Death had not broken between us the old bar; Nor torn from out my heart the old, cold sense Of your misprision and my impotence. _The Birch-Tree at Loschwitz._ [Illustration: text decoration] At Loschwitz above the city The air is sunny and chill; The birch-trees and the pine-trees Grow thick upon the hill. Lone and tall, with silver stem, A birch-tree stands apart; The passionate wind of spring-time Stirs in its leafy heart. I lean against the birch-tree, My arms around it twine; It pulses, and leaps, and quivers, Like a human heart to mine. One moment I stand, then sudden Let loose mine arms that cling: O God! the lonely hillside, The passionate wind of spring! _In the Night._ [Illustration: text decoration] Cruel? I think there never was a cheating More cruel, thro’ all the weary days than this! This is no dream, my heart kept on repeating, _But sober certainty of waking bliss_. Dreams? O, I know their faces--goodly seeming, Vaporous, whirled on many-coloured wings; I have had dreams before, this is no dreaming, But daylight gladness that the daylight brings. What ails my love; what ails her? She is paling; Faint grows her face, and slowly seems to fade! I cannot clasp her--stretch out unavailing My arms across the silence and the shade. _Borderland._ [Illustration: text decoration]