And when I again awake,

I shall find their faces only

Moonbeams in the boughs that shake;

And their revels, but the rush

Of night-winds through bough and brush.

Yet my dreaming—is it more

Than mere dreaming? Is some door

Opened in my soul? a curtain

Raised? to let me see for certain

I have lived that life before?

[29]

[29]

The Last Song 

The Last

Song

She sleeps; he sings to her. The day was long,

And, tired out with too much happiness,

She fain would have him sing of old Provence;

Quaint songs, that spoke of love in such soft tones,

Her restless soul was straight besieged of dreams,

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