Public Domain Poetry And Stories - The Day-Dream. by Thomas Moore
Public domain poetry and public domain stories from the literary greats of yesteryear.
Main Menu

Home

Latest Poetry

Latest Authors

Authors Surname

Authors First Name

Poetry Title

Poetry First Lines

Latest Stories

Stories Title

Top Authors

Top Poetry


Top Stories Etc.

Search

Contact Us

Useless Information!!

Store



Top Sites, Click here to vote for our site

Sponsored Links

Read, Rate, Comment on or Submit your poetry

The Day-Dream.

    By Thomas Moore



[1]


    They both were husht, the voice, the chords,--
        I heard but once that witching lay;
    And few the notes, and few the words.
        My spell-bound memory brought away;

    Traces, remembered here and there,
        Like echoes of some broken strain;--
    Links of a sweetness lost in air,
        That nothing now could join again.

    Even these, too, ere the morning, fled;
        And, tho' the charm still lingered on,
    That o'er each sense her song had shed,
        The song itself was faded, gone;--

    Gone, like the thoughts that once were ours,
        On summer days, ere youth had set;
    Thoughts bright, we know, as summer flowers,
        Tho' what they were we now forget.

    In vain with hints from other strains
        I wooed this truant air to come--
    As birds are taught on eastern plains
        To lure their wilder kindred home.

    In vain:--the song that Sappho gave,
        In dying, to the mournful sea,
    Not muter slept beneath the wave
        Than this within my memory.

    At length, one morning, as I lay
        In that half-waking mood when dreams
    Unwillingly at last gave way
        To the full truth of daylight's beams,

    A face--the very face, methought,
        From which had breathed, as from a shrine
    Of song and soul, the notes I sought--
        Came with its music close to mine;

    And sung the long-lost measure o'er,--
        Each note and word, with every tone
    And look, that lent it life before,--
        All perfect, all again my own!

    Like parted souls, when, mid the Blest
        They meet again, each widowed sound
    Thro' memory's realm had winged in quest
        Of its sweet mate, till all were found.

    Nor even in waking did the clew,
        Thus strangely caught, escape again;
    For never lark its matins knew
        So well as now I knew this strain.

    And oft when memory's wondrous spell
        Is talked of in our tranquil bower,
    I sing this lady's song, and tell
        The vision of that morning hour.



Extra Info:
[1] In these stanzas I have done little more than relate a fact in verse; and the lady, whose singing gave rise to this curious instance of the power of memory in sleep, is Mrs. Robert Arkwright.



Printable Page

Add Your Thoughts on this poem.



This page viewed 328 times.
Sponsored Links


Your Shops - Affordable Ecommerce stores and cheaper goods for customers - No listing fees!



Our Sites