Bright are my dreams.
Not brighter are the beams that gild
The far off Oriental hills,
Nor richer dyes, along the west,
Glow as the day-god sinks to rest,
His labor done.
High are my dreams.
Not higher are the stars that sleep
Far up in yonder azure deep;
Nor yet the beauteous orb of light
That sweeps across the skies at night,
With silent step.
Grand are my dreams.
Not grander is the thunder's tone
Rolling across yon bended dome;
Nor more sublime the storm king's wrath,
Leaving all desolate his path,
As he rides on.
Wild are my dreams.
Wild as the wind-harp's thrilling chimes
That roll so grandly through the pines
And deep as ocean's solemn roar,
As 'mong its caves, or on the shore
Its waters break.
Calm are my dreams.
Just like the lakelet's silver breast,
When all is still, and hushed to rest;
Or like a river, broad and free,
Majestic sweeping to the sea.
In conscious might.
'T is thus I dream.
A mingled chain of wild and fair,
A mystic web of colors rare,
Now bathed in Heaven's immortal light
Now dark and fathomless as night
A shifting scene.
Still let me dream.
The chainless wing of thought shall bear
My soul above all earthly care;
Till life's last dream my soul sweeps o'er
And I awake to dream no more
In bliss that's real.
