Songs of the Spirit

AN ILL DREAM. IN the grim woods when all the bare black branches Creak out their curses like a gallows-tree, When the miasmal pestilence-light dances, A spectre-flame, through midnight’s infamy. My blood grows chill and stagnant with my shame. O Love, to speak thy name ! O Life ! O Heaven ! O dreams long dead ! Ye Spirits Rising unbidden from Hope’s cobwebbed door, Ye quick desires that every soul inherits, Leave me to weep, and torture me no more ! My face grows grey with sheer despair ; I shrink From dreams ; I dare not think. I had a poet’s dreams. My soul was yearning To grasp the firmament and hold it fast, 27