Page:Roses in Rain, by Lilian Wooster Greaves, 1910.pdf/55

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Angel of dreams, art thou the friend of Death,
That he at thy request will quicken breath,
And lay within my arms, all close and warm,
My long-lost sister’s ever beauteous form?
And does he love thee, that at thy request
He calls his loved ones from their bright homes blest.
And bids them come, with sweet caress and smile
To cheer poor mortals for a little while?
And dost thou love me, thus to come at night,
Painting sweet hopes, recalling memories bright?
Singing thy fleeting promises of bliss?
Giving my lips a momentary kiss?
And is it kind, when Reason, Sense and Will
Bid me forget—to quicken Memory still?
To see my soul all day in anxious fight,
Then quietly undo her work at night?
To heal my every wound before I wake
So that at morn my heart afresh may break?


Angel of dreams, fold up thy magic chart,
Withdraw thy presence from my stricken heart.
Fly to some soul whose day without a care
Shall find in thee but a continuance fair
Of pleasant thought, and innocent delight,