Life Tells The Dreamer

THESE others ask me little, clamoring For such imperfect gifts as I can bring; A crown . . . with thorns along it . . . or much gold To weigh the heart down with its dragging hold . . . Or men's loud voices calling on their name, A little day, then hurt and scorn– called Fame– Or for one fleeting hour a world made new Called Love . . . But, Child, these gifts are not for you. Too clear of sight, you ask things past my hold; A light beyond the sunlight . . . Fairy-gold . . . Love ageless and unflawed . . . Faith crystal-true . . . So, Child, I keep my broken gifts from you, Leaving instead my only perfect thing, The Dream these others lose, all-sorrowing, Still raptured, still all-golden; yours to keep Till Death my sister's gift, more perfect Sleep.