Classic Poem

The Gate of Dreams, where, time and time again,
Through sleep transfigured with a nameless light,
Fearful, upon the tired end of night,
I come as might a devote to his fane.
The Gate of Dreams, of melancholy pain,
Flooding the drowsy labyrinthine soul
With faces of despair or patient dole—
The tragic children of a weary brain.
The Gate of Dreams, where throbs a ghostly wail,
As it were of sobbing strings and wild accords,
Where life is scenic in the smile of fate;
Where faces, shrouded in an iron veil,
Pass outward in a woe too great for words,
Or weep in haggard terror, weep and wait.