But unto thee, when thee I meet, My pulses thicken fast, As when the maddened lake grows black And ruffles in the blast. I DREAMED OF FOREST ALLEYS FAIR I. I DREAMED of forest alleys fair And fields of gray-flowered grass, Where by the yellow summer moon My Jenny seemed to pass. I dreamed the yellow summer moon, Behind a cedar wood, Lay white on fields of rippling grass Where I and Jenny stood. I dreamed—but fallen through my dream, In a rainy land I lie Where wan wet morning crowns the hills Of grim reality. II. I am as one that keeps awake All night in the month of June, That lies awake in bed to watch The trees and great white moon. For memories of love are more Than the white moon there above, And dearer than quiet moonshine Are the thoughts of her I love. III. Last night I lingered long without My last of loves to see. Alas! the moon-white window-panes Stared blindly back on me. To-day I hold her very hand, Her very waist embrace— Like clouds across a pool, I read Her thoughts upon her face. And yet, as now, through her clear eyes I seek the inner shrine— I stoop to read her virgin heart In doubt if it be mine— O looking long and fondly thus, What vision should I see? No vision, but my own white face That grins and mimics me. IV. Once more upon the same old seat In the same sunshiny weather, The elm-trees’ shadows at their feet And foliage move together. The shadows shift upon the grass, The dial point creeps on; The clear sun shines, the loiterers pass, As then they passed and shone. But now deep sleep is on my heart, Deep sleep and perfect rest. Hope’s flutterings now disturb no more The quiet of my breast. ST. MARTIN’S SUMMER AS swallows turning backward When half-way o’er the sea, At one word’s trumpet summons They came again to me— The hopes I had forgotten Came back again to me. I know not which to credit, O lady of my heart! Your eyes that bade me linger, Your words that bade us part— I know not which to credit, My reason or my heart. But be my hopes rewarded, Or be they but in vain, I have dreamed a golden vision, I have gathered in the grain— I have dreamed a golden vision, I have not lived in vain. DEDICATION MY first gift and my last, to you I dedicate this fascicle of songs— The only wealth I have: Just as they are, to you. I speak the truth in soberness, and say I had rather bring a light to your clear eyes, Had rather hear you praise This bosomful of songs Than that the whole, hard world with one consent, In one continuous chorus of applause Poured forth for me and mine The homage of ripe praise.