A Lost Ideal

A mocking bird from out the South Sang through my dream, he said, But when the dream was done I heard A woman’s voice instead.

A woman’s voice that strove to wake The joyous tones I missed; But only breathed a sigh across The lips that pain had kissed.

A deep perfume of tropic flowers Stole through my dream, he said; But when I sought the blossoms bright I saw a face instead.

A woman’s face where Nature wrote The score of some grand hymn, Then blotting it with life and toil Left all the record dim.

And in the dream my soul thrice turned To greet a comrade call; But when I woke the gray of night Lay silent over all.