AS in the wastes of arctic snow
The seaman's eyes, when slumber-sealed,
See in a mocking dream revealed
His land - his home - in summer glow;
But ere he speaks the tender words
That from his lips unbidden start,
Or clasps his loved ones, heart to heart,
He wakes to look on glassy fjords,
And fields of ice that coldly glare
Beneath the flushing northern light,
Whose crimson beacons of the night
Show only desolation there;
So I, in rough and cheerless ways,
By fate confined with harsh decree,
Have dreamt an idle fantasy
Of love, and thought him face to face.
Then darkness died before mine eyes,
The coldness and the chill were gone,
The spectral lights, the midnight sun,
Were banished in that sweet sunrise.
But ere my eager lips could speak
The tender words they longed to say,
I woke to see the dream-born day
Fade into darkness dull and bleak.
C. T. D.
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