A dream with the dark soft key

In her hand might hover, and be

Their keeper till morning rise;

The morning that brings after many

Days fled with no light upon any

The small face back which is gone;

When the loved little hands once more

Shall struggle and strain at the door

They beat their summons upon.

330 VII

330

If a soul for but seven days were cast out of heaven and its mirth,

They would seem to her fears like as seventy years upon earth.

Even and morrow should seem to her sorrow as long

As the passage of numberless ages in slumberless song.

Dawn, roused by the lark, would be surely as dark in her sight

As her measureless measure of shadowless pleasure was bright.

Noon, gilt but with glory of gold, would be hoary and grey

In her eyes that had gazed on the depths, unamazed with the day.

Night hardly would seem to make darker her dream never done,

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