Bring not your dreams to me--
Blown dust, and vapour, and the running stream--
Saying, 'He, too, doth dream,
Touched of the moon.'

Nay! wouldst thou vanish see
Thy darling phantoms,
Bring them then to me!
For my hard business--though so soft it seems--
Was ever dreams and dreams.

And as some stern-eyed broker smiles disdain,
Valuing at nought
Her bosom's locket, with its little chain,
Love's all that Love hath brought;
So must I weigh and measure
Thy fading treasure,
Sighing to see it go
As surely as the snow.

For I have such sad knowledge of all things
That shine like dew a little, all that sings
And ends its song in weeping--
Such sowing and such reaping!--
There is no cure but sleeping.