A Dream. A Poem

A DREAM. BY SARAH E. PEARSON. In the still fragrance of the balmy night, The angel of thy presence came to me, And whispered pregnant messages of thee, In language pure as prayer, and soft, and light As whirr of angel wings, in rapid flight; As rhythmic cadences of dripping rain Upon my cottage roof in musical refrain; Intangible as scent of new-mown hay. Or cool, swift rush of balsam-laden air. At break of day. Wondering, I gazed into his mystic eyes, And tried to understand: So glad to be Recipient of thy treasured sympathy. To feel thy soul respond to my soul's cries, Accordant love within thy bosom rise. I dreamed I listened, as, in musing trance Perception keen and quickened by his solemn glance, He stooped and kissed my eyelids down. — They close In dewy, dreamless slumber; deep, sweet, Childlike repose. And when I wake, his message all forgot, A subtle spirit-essence in the air. Floating like incense, greets me everywhere. As though thy living presence in each spot Whispered, "Forget me not, for thou art not forgotten.'* In the press Of myriad daily cares, heart-hunger, stress Of chilling silence, loneliness, I feel Once more I am remembered, and my heart Sings happily, though silently, the dear God's praises as I kneel.