Classic Poem

That robe she wore, those words she spoke, that look
Was in her eyes; and is it loss or gain
That this, her image, is so clear and plain,
That, like the pages of a well-loved book
In spring-time conned in some delicious nook,
Each tender memory I turn again
Over and over? Is it all in vain?
For as I dreamt a darkness overtook

My soul, a formless dread possessed my heart,
A mocking echo whispered down the wind:
" Dream on, thou dreamer, feed thy empty mind
On fancied joys wherein thou hast no part:
For save in dreams that face thou shalt not see
And save in dreams that voice is dumb for thee."