A Dream That Was Not All A Dream.

Through the half-curtained window stole
An Autumn sunset's glow,
As languid on my couch I lay
With pulses weak and low.

And then methought a presence stood,
With shining feet and fair,
Amid the waves of golden light
That rippled through the air,

And laid upon my heaving breast,
With earnest glance and true,
A babe, whose fair and gentle brow
No shade of sorrow knew.

A solemn joy was in my heart,--
Immortal life was given
To Earth, upon her battle-field
To discipline for Heaven.

Soft music thrilled the quiet room,--
An unseen host were nigh,
Who left the infant pilgrim at
The threshold of our sky.

A new, strange love woke in my heart,
Defying all control,
As on the soft air rose and fell
That birth-hymn for a soul!

And now again the Autumn skies,
As on that evening, shine,
When, from a trance of agony,
I woke to joy divine.

That boundless love is in my heart,
That birth-hymn on the air;
I clasp in mine, with grateful faith,
A tiny hand in prayer.

And bless the God who guides my way,
That, mid this world so wide,
I day by day am walking with
An angel by my side.

Mary Gardiner Horsford

Mary Gardiner Horsford was an American poet born in Albany, New York. She was known for her thoughtful and evocative poetry. Gardiner displayed a remarkable talent for literary expression from an early age and contributed to various literary magazines. However, her life was tragically cut short when she passed away at the young age of 31. Despite her brief life, her works left a lasting impression on American literature.

Mary Gardiner Horsford

My Native Isle.

Mary Gardiner Horsford, Simple Poetry

Spring Lilies.

Mary Gardiner Horsford, Simple Poetry

The Child's Appeal.

Mary Gardiner Horsford, Simple Poetry

I Would Not Live Alway.

Mary Gardiner Horsford, Simple Poetry

English

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Night bent o'er the mountains
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I heard the strokes of the midnight bell
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Minnie

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Oh, my blossom, my darling, whose dimpled hands are    cold!
Oh, my baby, my treasure, laid under the green mould!
Earth pressed on thy closed eyelids, and on thy sunny hair,
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The Deformed Artist.

The twilight o'er Italia's sky
Had spread a shadowy veil,
And one by one the solemn stars
Looked forth, serene and pale;
As quietly the waning light
Through a high casement stole,
And fell on one with silver hair,
Who shrived a passing soul.

No costly pomp or luxury
Relieved that chamber's gloom,
But glowing forms, by limner's art
Created, thronged the room:
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The chime for evening prayer,
The dying painter's earnest tones
Fell on the languid air.

"The spectral form of Death is nigh,
The thread of life is spun:
Ave Maria! I have looked
Upon my latest sun.
And yet 't is not with pale disease
This frame is worn away;
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A child but yesterday,"

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