Dream Is—Which? The

I am laughing by the brook with her,
 Splashed in its tumbling stir;
And then it is a blankness looms
 As if I walked not there,
Nor she, but found me in haggard rooms,
 And treading a lonely stair.

With radiant cheeks and rapid eyes
 We sit where none espies;
Till a harsh change comes edging in
 As no such scene were there,
But winter, and I were bent and thin,
 And cinder-gray my hair.

We dance in heys around the hall,
 Weightless as thistleball;
And then a curtain drops between,
 As if I danced not there,
But wandered through a mounded green
 To find her, I knew where.

  March 1913
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