Glenn Ward Dresbach

WHEN my dream-robe is tattered,

If ever it is so,

And one may seem to scorn it,

Oh, I shall let him know

That it was torn on points of stars

And gold of the rainbow!

When I am dead, oh, speak to me

No words that I have heard,

Lest to my peace come misery,

Lest my calm sleep be stirred

With want of mortal love again!

But bring a drop of April rain,

The dawn-song of a bird,

The leafy lyric of a tree,

A slender flower with its dew—

That I may dream, and seem to be

Dead to all but you!