Thou art not one of the living now;

And yet a form appears

At times before me, such as thou

In days of former years:

It rises, to my spirit's sight,

In thoughts by day, in dreams by night.

Nor can I choose, but fondly bless

A shade, if shade it be,

Which, with such soft expressiveness,

Recalls one thought of thee:

I own it, in itself, ideal;

Its influence o’er my heart is real.

I grant that dreams are idle things,

Yet have I known a few,

To which my faithful memory clings;

They seem’d so sweet and true,

That, let who will the fault condemn,

It was a grief to wake from them.

One such came lately in the hours

To nightly slumber due;

It pictur’d forth no fairy bowers

To fancy's raptur’d view;

It had not much of marvels strange,

Nor aught of wild and frequent change:—

But all seem’d real.—Aye! as much,

As now the page I trace

Is palpable to sight and touch:

Then how could doubt have place?

Yet was I not from doubt exempt,

But ask’d myself if still I dreamt.

I felt I did; but, spite of this,

Even thus in dreamsto meet,

Had much, too much of dearest bliss,

Though not enough to cheat:

I knew the vision might not stay,

And yet I bless’d its transient sway.

But oh, thylook!— It was not one

That earthly features wear;

Nor was it aught to fear or shun,

As fancied spectres are:

’Twas gentle, pure, and passionless,

Yet full of heavenly tenderness.

One thing was strange.—It seem’d to me

We were not long alone;

But many more were circling thee,

Whom thou on earth hadst known:

Who seem’d as greeting thy return