A Day Dream
On
a
sunny
brae
alone
I
lay
One
summer
afternoon;
It
was
the
marriage-time
of
May,
With
her
young
lover,
June.
From
her
mother's
heart
seemed
loath
to
part
That
queen
of
bridal
charms,
But
her
father
smiled
on
the
fairest
child
He
ever
held
in
his
arms.
The
trees
did
wave
their
plumy
crests,
The
glad
birds
carolled
clear;
And
I,
of
all
the
wedding
guests,
Was
only
sullen
there!
There
was
not
one,
but
wished
to
shun
My
aspect
void
of
cheer;
The
very
gray
rocks,
looking
on,
Asked,
"What
do
you
here?"
And
I
could
utter
no
reply;
In
sooth,
I
did
not
know
Why
I
had
brought
a
clouded
eye
To
greet
the
general
glow.
So,
resting
on
a
heathy
bank,
I
took
my
heart
to
me;
And
we
together
sadly
sank
Into
a
reverie.
We
thought,
"When
winter
comes
again,
Where
will
these
bright
things
be?
All
vanished,
like
a
vision
vain,
An
unreal
mockery!
"The
birds
that
now
so
blithely
sing,
Through
deserts,
frozen
dry,
Poor
spectres
of
the
perished
spring,
In
famished
troops
will
fly.
"And
why
should
we
be
glad
at
all?
The
leaf
is
hardly
green,
Before
a
token
of
its
fall
Is
on
the
surface
seen!"
Now,
whether
it
were
really
so,
I
never
could
be
sure;
But
as
in
fit
of
peevish
woe,
I
stretched
me
on
the
moor,
A
thousand
thousand
gleaming
fires
Seemed
kindling
in
the
air;
A
thousand
thousand
silvery
lyres
Resounded
far
and
near:
Methought,
the
very
breath
I
breathed
Was
full
of
sparks
divine,
And
all
my
heather-couch
was
wreathed
By
that
celestial
shine!
And,
while
the
wide
earth
echoing
rung
To
that
strange
minstrelsy
The
little
glittering
spirits
sung,
Or
seemed
to
sing,
to
me:
"O
mortal!
mortal!
let
them
die;
Let
time
and
tears
destroy,
That
we
may
overflow
the
sky
With
universal
joy!
"Let
grief
distract
the
sufferer's
breast,
And
night
obscure
his
way;
They
hasten
him
to
endless
rest,
And
everlasting
day.
"To
thee
the
world
is
like
a
tomb,
A
desert's
naked
shore;
To
us,
in
unimagined
bloom,
It
brightens
more
and
more!
"And,
could
we
lift
the
veil,
and
give
One
brief
glimpse
to
thine
eye,
Thou
wouldst
rejoice
for
those
that
live,
BECAUSE
they
live
to
die."
The
music
ceased;
the
noonday
dream,
Like
dream
of
night,
withdrew;
But
Fancy,
still,
will
sometimes
deem
Her
fond
creation
true.
