A Dream

My dead love came to me, and said,
    'God gives me one hour's rest,
To spend with thee on earth again:
    How shall we spend it best?'

'Why, as of old,' I said; and so
    We quarrell'd, as of old:
But, when I turn'd to make my peace,
    That one short hour was told.

Stephen Phillips

Stephen Phillips was an English poet and dramatist, best known for his poems and plays in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. He gained early success with his collection 'Poems' in 1897, and his play 'Paolo and Francesca' was particularly well-received. His works often explored themes of love, tragedy, and historical events. Despite a successful start, he faced financial difficulties and his later works did not gain the same acclaim.

Stephen Phillips

To A Lost Love

Stephen Phillips, Simple Poetry

Orestes

Stephen Phillips, Simple Poetry

Poems

Stephen Phillips, Simple Poetry

English

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A Dream

My dead love came to me, and said,
'God gives me one hour's rest,
To spend with thee on earth again:
How shall we spend it best?'

'Why, as of old,' I said; and so
We quarrell'd, as of old:
But, when I turn'd to make my peace,
That one short hour was told.

Stephen Phillips

To A Lost Love

I cannot look upon thy grave,
    Though there the rose is sweet:
Better to hear the long wave wash
    These wastes about my feet!

Shall I take comfort? Dost thou live
    A spirit, though afar,
With a deep hush about thee, like
    The stillness round a star?

Oh, thou art cold! In that high sphere
    Thou art a thing apart,
Losing in saner happiness
    This madness of the heart.

And yet, at times, thou still shalt feel
    A passing breath, a pain;
Disturb'd, as though a door in heaven
    Had oped and closed again.

And thou shalt shiver, while the hymns,
    The solemn hymns, shall cease;
A moment half remember me:
    Then turn away to peace.

But oh, for evermore thy look,
    Thy laugh, thy charm, t...

Stephen Phillips

The Death-Dream

Who, now, put dreams into thy slumbering mind?
Who, with bright Fear's lean taper, crossed a hand
Athwart its beam, and stooping, truth maligned,
Spake so thy spirit speech should understand,
And with a dread "He's dead!" awaked a peal
Of frenzied bells along the vacant ways
Of thy poor earthly heart; waked thee to steal,
Like dawn distraught upon unhappy days,
To prove nought, nothing? Was it Time's large voice
Out of the inscrutable future whispered so?
Or but the horror of a little noise
Earth wakes at dead of night? Or does Love know
When his sweet wings weary and droop, and even
In sleep cries audibly a shrill remorse?
Or, haply, was it I who out of dream
Stole but a little where shadows course,
Called back to thee across the eternal stream?

Walter De La Mare

To A Lost Love

I cannot look upon thy grave,
Though there the rose is sweet:
Better to hear the long wave wash
These wastes about my feet!

Shall I take comfort? Dost thou live
A spirit, though afar,
With a deep hush about thee, like
The stillness round a star?

Oh, thou art cold! In that high sphere
Thou art a thing apart,
Losing in saner happiness
This madness of the heart.

And yet, at times, thou still shalt feel
A passing breath, a pain;
Disturb'd, as though a door in heaven
Had oped and closed again.

And thou shalt shiver, while the hymns,
The solemn hymns, shall cease;
A moment half remember me:
Then turn away to peace.

But oh, for evermore thy look,
Thy laugh, thy charm, thy tone,
Thy sweet and wayward earthlin...

Stephen Phillips

Wherefore?

        Wherefore in dreams are sorrows borne anew,
    A healed wound opened, or the past revived?
        Last night in my deep sleep I dreamed of you;
    Again the old love woke in me, and thrived
        On looks of fire, and kisses, and sweet words
    Like silver waters purling in a stream,
        Or like the amorous melodies of birds:
    A dream - a dream!

        Again upon the glory of the scene
    There settled that dread shadow of the cross
        That, when hearts love too well, falls in between;
    That warns them of impending woe and loss.
        Again I saw you drifting from my life,
    As barques are rudely parted in a stream;
        Again my heart was torn with awful strife:
    A dream - a dream!

        Again the deep ni...

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

An Old Sweetheart Of Mine

As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone,
And muses on the faces of the friends that he has known,
So I turn the leaves of fancy till, in shadowy design,
I find the smiling features of an old sweetheart of mine.

The lamplight seems to glimmer with a flicker of surprise,
As I turn it low to rest me of the dazzle in my eyes,
And light my pipe in silence, save a sigh that seems to yoke
Its fate with my tobacco and to vanish with the smoke.

'Tis a fragrant retrospection - for the loving thoughts that start
Into being are like perfume from the blossom of the heart;
And to dream the old dreams over is a luxury divine -
When my truant fancy wanders with that old sweetheart of mine.

Though I hear, beneath my study, like a fluttering of wings,
The voices o...

James Whitcomb Riley