The Dead Dream
When the dream is dead and its magic flown,
Bare is the branch where the rose has grown;
And the song and laughter are hushed and still,
And the blood runs slow and the heart is chill
Like an empty house and a hearth windblown.
When the dream is dead, Love makes his moan
Over the face that he once has known;
And his voice is choked and his deep eyes fill.
When the dream is dead, Care claims her own,
Ruling the world from a frowning throne;
And work is weary and life goes ill,
Robbed of the glow, the flame, the thrill!
For the body lives, but the Soul has flown--
When the dream is dead.