DOUBTFUL DREAMS 



Aye, snows are rife in December, 



And sheaves are in August, yet, 

 And you would have me remember, 



And I would rather forget ; 

 In the bloom of the May-day weather, 



In the blight of October chill, 

 We were dreamers of old together, — 



As of old, are you dreaming still ? 



For nothing on earth is sadder 



Than the dream that cheated the grasp, 

 The flower that turned to the adder, 



The fruit that changed to the asp ; 

 When the day-spring in darkness closes, 



As the sunset fades from the hills. 

 With the fragrance of perish'd roses. 



With the music of parch'd-up rills. 



When the sands on the sea-shore nourish 



Red clover and yellow corn ; 

 When figs on the thistle flourish. 



And grapes grow thick on the thorn ; 



When the dead branch, blighted and blasted, 



Puts forth green leaves in the spring ; 



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