The Old Dream
Nay, tell me not. I will not know.
Because of her my life is bare,
A waste where blow-seeds spring and grow
Then die because the soil is spent,
And leave no token they were there;
A soddened mere where marsh-lights gleam,
But no star sees the ray it lent
Because of her despoiled and bare.
What then? she did a wrong unmeant.
Leave me my dream.
Tell me no more. I will not know.
My life, if she had harsher eyes,
Did her sweet voice not deepen so,
Had maybe missed this bitterness;
Maybe I should have been more wise
If she were sterner, or could seem,
If she could have been pitiless.
Too sweet low voice! too trustful eyes!
What then? she could not judge their stress
Leave me my dream.
I will not know. Rob not my heart:
It is too poor to lose yet more.
Leave the old dream where she was part:
Are all smiles ill, all sweetness lies?
One blossom once my life-time bore,
It wakened at her April beam,
Then froze; yet dead 'tis still some prize
It shows mine blossoms were of yore.
Let be: I need some memories:
Leave me my dream.
Poems by Augusta Davies Webster
