Only A Dream
Methought I saw thee yesternight
Sit by me in the olden guise,
The white robes and the pain foregone,
Weaving instead of amaranth crown
A web of mortal dyes.
I cried, "Where hast thou been so long?"
(The mild eyes turned and mutely smiled
"Why dwellest thou in far-off lands?
What is that web within thy hands?"
--"I work for thee, my child."
I clasped thee in my arms and wept;
I kissed thee oft with passion wild:
I poured fond questions, tender blame;
Still thy sole answer was the same,--
"I work for thee, my child."
"Come and walk with me as of old."
Then camest thou, silent as before;
We passed along that churchyard way
We used to tread each Sabbath day,
Till one trod earth no more.
I felt thy hand upon my arm,
Beside me thy meek face I saw,
Yet through the sweet familiar grace
A something spiritual could trace
That left a nameless awe.
Trembling I said, "Long years have passed
Since thou wert from my side beguiled;
Now thou'rt returned and all shall be
As was before."--Half-pensively
Thou answered'st--"Nay, my child."
I pleaded sore: "Hadst thou forgot
The love wherewith we loved of old,--
The long sweet days of converse blest,
The nights of slumber on thy breast,--
Wert thou to me grown cold?"
There beamed on me those eyes of heaven
That wept no more, but ever smiled;
"Love only is love in that Home
Where I abide--where, till thou come,
I work for thee, my child."
If from my sight thou passedst then,
Or if my sobs the dream exiled,
I know not: but in memory clear
I seem these strange words still to hear,
"I work for thee, my child."
Poems by Dinah Craik
