To M.

Sweet visions came to me in sleep,
    Ah! wondrous fair to see;
And in my mind I strove to keep
    The dream to tell to thee.

But morning broke with golden gleam,
    And shone upon thy face,
And life was lovelier than a dream,
    And dreams had lost their grace.

Arthur Macy

Arthur Macy was an American poet known for his contributions during the 19th century. Born on June 6, 1842, he became widely recognized for his poignant and evocative verses, which often reflected themes of nature and human emotion. His poetry gained considerable respect and admiration during his lifetime. He passed away on June 1, 1904.

Arthur Macy

Idylettes Of The Queen

Arthur Macy, Simple Poetry

Thou Art To Me

Arthur Macy, Simple Poetry

Céleste

Arthur Macy, Simple Poetry

At Twilight Time

Arthur Macy, Simple Poetry

English

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My Masterpiece

I wrote the truest, tend'rest song
    The world had ever heard;
And clear, melodious, and strong,
    And sweet was every word.
The flowing numbers came to me
    Unbidden from the heart;
So pure the strain, that poesy
    Seemed something more than art.

No doubtful cadence marred a line,
    So tunefully it flowed,
And through the measure, all divine
    The fire of genius glowed.
So deftly were the verses wrought,
    So fair the legend told,
That every word revealed a thought,
    And every thought was gold.

Mine was the charm, the power, the skill,
    The wisdom of the years;
'Twas mine to move the world at will
    To laughter or to tears.
For subtile pleasantry was there,
    And brilliant flash of wit;
Now, pl...

Arthur Macy

Slumber Song

Gently fall the shadows gray,
    Daylight softly veiling;
Now to Dreamland we'll away,
    Sailing, sailing, sailing.

Little eyes were made for sleeping,
    Little heads were made for rest,
Golden locks were made for keeping
    Close to mother's breast;
Little hands were made for folding,
    Little lips should never sigh;
What dear mother's arms are holding,
    Love alone can buy.

Gently fall the shadows gray,
    Daylight softly veiling;
Now to Dreamland we'll away,
    Sailing, sailing, sailing.

Arthur Macy

At Twilight Time

At twilight time when tolls the chime,
    And saddest notes are falling,
A lonely bird with plaintive word
    Across the dusk is calling.
Vain doth it wait for one dear mate,
    That ne'er shall know the morrow;
Then sinks to rest with drooping crest
    In one long dream of sorrow.

Dearest, when night is here,
    To thee I'm calling,
Sadly as tear on tear
    Is slowly falling,
Oh, fold me near, more near -
    In love enthralling!
Here on thy breast,
    While life shall last,
With thee I stay.
    Here will I rest
Till night is past,
    And comes the day!

Arthur Macy

Thou Art To Me

    Thou art to me
As are soft breezes to a summer sea;
    As stars unto the night;
    Or when the day is born,
    As sunrise to the morn;
As peace unto the fading of the light.

    Thou art to me
As one sweet flower upon a barren lea;
    As rest to toiling hands;
As one clear spring amid the desert sands;
    As smiles to maidens' lips;
As hope to friends that wait for absent ships;
    As happiness to youth;
    As purity to truth;
    As sweetest dreams to sleep;
As balm to wounded hearts that weep.
All, all that I would have thee be
    Thou art to me.

Arthur Macy

All On A Golden Summer Day

All on a golden summer day,
As through the leaves a single ray
Of yellow sunshine finds its way
            So bright, so bright;
The wakened birds that blithely sing
Seem welcoming another spring;
While all the woods are murmuring
            So light, so light.

All on a golden summer day,
When to my heart a single ray
Of tender kindness finds its way,
            So bright, so bright;
Then comes sweet hope and bravely dares
To break the chain that sorrow wears -
And all my burdens, all my cares
            Are light, so light!

Arthur Macy

A Gift.

My gift would find thee fast asleep,
    And arise a dream in thee;
A violet sky o'er the roll and sweep
    Of a purple and pallid sea;
And a crescent moon from my sky should creep
    In the golden dream to thee.

Thou shouldst lay thee down, and sadly list
    To the wail of our cold birth-time;
And build thee a temple, glory-kissed,
    In the heart of the sunny clime;
Its columns should rise in a music-mist,
    And its roofs in a spirit-rhyme.

Its pillars the solemn hills should bind
    'Neath arches of starry deeps;
Its floor the earth all veined and lined;
    Its organ the ocean-sweeps;
And, swung in the hands of the grey-robed wind,
    Its censers the blossom-heaps.

And 'tis almost done; for in this my rhyme,
    Tha...

George MacDonald