SLEEP'S THRESHOLD.
What gauzy shapes of shadow wind
Across the soul's husht meadow-plain,
In forms that fade and glow again,
When sleep first dawns upon the mind.
Like light-limbed antelopes, that skim
Across the wide and waste Karoo,
In changing combinations new
Their mingling masses hover dim.
They float and flit in wizard ways,
Above, below, and in, and out,
A reckless-ranging, lissom rout,
That takes no heed of roads nor days.
They are not thralls of space nor time,
These dwellers on the skirts of death;
They tread not earth, they breathe not breath,
Their homes are not of earthly clime.
Their tresses float on airless breeze,
Their raiment hath not woof nor warp,
Their music as a soundless harp
No sense may soothe nor ear appease.
The shadows, they of undreamt dreams,
The wraiths of buried hopes and fears,
The vapour fumed from fallen tears,
The masks of what is not, yet seems.
