Our Dreams.

Sweet early buds that blossom to a soul.
Our dreams, the dreams of all the world!
Every morning opens wondering lids
When their soft petals are again unfurled
Over the pallid sky.

Each dream so white, imbedded in her sphere
Of prisoning leaves, sings of the hour
When through her loosening walls the bright shafts burn
Their deepening radiance to the vivid flower.

Though morning passes and the moontide's wave
Shall scorch her pathway through the blue,
Shrivelling to dust the velvet petals' sheen,
To strew the mottled sky, they'll flower anew.
Never a dream will

—M.E.H.