Poems (Chitwood)/A Dream

by Mary Louisa Chitwood

For works with similar titles, see A Dream.

A DREAM.

I'd a dream last night 'neath the moonbeams white;
   I gazed on a rushing river;
On one bank was a pine, on the other a vine,
And it seemed in this strange, strange dream of mine,
   That they reached tow'rd each other forever.

The pine was high, looking up to the sky,
   With the sunlight o'er it streaming:
And bright birds flew its branches through;
And bees and zephyrs, and light and dew,
   Were o'er and about, in my dreaming.

But the vine was low; and the river's flow,
   And the shadowy vale a-near it,
Were filled with a moan, and its life was lone,
Till the pine sent down a strange, sad tone,
   And the vine crept up to hear it.

And it said, "O tree, I have envied thee,
   Thy life is so fair in seeming;
From this gloomy vale, where my heart doth fail,
And the blooms of my life are few and pale,
   I have thought thee blest, in my dreaming."

Then whispered the pine, "This life of mine
   Is dreary, is isolated;
For something I miss; I've the sunlight's kiss,
And the song of the birds; but it is not this,—
   I am lone, I am all unmated.

"To the outward sight my life is bright
   As the dawn on a rolling river;
I look above, but I yearn for love
To fly to my heart, like a gentle dove,
   And fold its wings forever."

Then the vine grew glad, a sweet hope had
   From its lowly life up-started:
"O lonely pine, I will round thee twine;
Each blow at thy heart shall strike first through mine."—
   But the tree and the vine were parted.

And the lofty tree—so it seemed to me—
   Bent down for the gentle twining;
But the river's roar swelled over the shore,
Deeper and darker than ever before,
   Till the vale with waves was shining.

And the lowly vine—in this dream of mine—
   Crept out to the angry river;
Alas, the waves were Hope's dark caves,
Scooped by the winds into yawning graves,
   To part them, aye and forever.

Said the vine, below, "O have blooms of snow,
   For thee shall they sweetly blossom;
Their odors soft I will send thee oft,
By the summer breeze as it floats aloft,
   "To rest in thy lonely bosom."

And the pine bent low, "Yes, be it so,
   For dark fate bids us sever;
I will sing for thee, when each other tree
"Hath lost its music; oh, trust in me,
   I will love thee, love forever."

So the tree and the vine—in this dream of mine,—
   On each bank of the rushing river,
Looked love from afar, as star unto star;
Nor time nor fate their faith could mar—
   Once true they were true forever.