My little bed is wide enough
To hold the dream of you;
And O! its sheets are silken stuff,
Its covering silk-spun too,
When I reach out my arms about
That fancy's perfect hue!

And every night when first I creep
Into its white-wove rest,
Before I shut my eyes in sleep
I build that dream a nest,
With thoughts and hands and hope's demands
Against my cheek and breast.

Sometimes adown that lilied dell
Of exquisite desire
A little wind of want will swell
In sudden-breathing fire,
And bid my heart a-trembling start,
As though 'twere Orpheus' lyre.

Three roses in that virgin bower
The vows of Eden paint;
One is my mouth's deep-honeyed flower;
Two on my bosom faint,
As white and sweet from head to feet
I lie in dumb complaint.

And always ere the darkness seals
My lips till light's new day,
After my hallowed body kneels,
For all your needs to pray,
Like shy, screened birds, low-whispered words
Sing to that dream their lay.

All night does my soul's angel guard
That bower for your dear sake;
All night by his wide wings are barred
Those flowers, till morning-break,
And like a thrush whose quick notes rush,
I greet you when I wake.