New Year's Eve

The other night I had a dream, most clearAnd comforting, completeIn every line, a crystal sphere,And full of intimate and secret cheer.Therefore I will repeatThat vision, dearest heart, to you,As of a thing not feigned, but very true,Yes, true as ever in my life befell;And you, perhaps, can tellWhether my dream was really sad or sweet.

The shadows flecked the elm-embowered streetI knew so well, long, long ago;And on the pillared porch where MargueriteHad sat with me, the moonlight lay like snow.But she, my comrade and my friend of youth,Most gaily wise,Most innocently loved,--She of the blue-gray eyesThat ever smiled and ever spoke the truth,--From that familiar dwelling, where she movedLike mirth incarnate in the years before,Had gone into the hidden house of Death.I thought the garden woreWhite mourning for her blessed innocence,And the syringa's breathCame from the corner by the fenceWhere she had made her rustic seat,With fragrance passionate, intense,As if it breathed a sigh for Marguerite.My heart was heavy with a senseOf something good for ever gone. I soughtVainly for some consoling thought,Some comfortable word that I could sayTo her sad father, whom I visited againFor the first time since she had gone away.The bell rang shrill and lonely,--thenThe door was opened, and I sent my nameTo him,--but ah! 'twas Marguerite who came!There in the dear old dusky room she stoodBeneath the lamp, just as she used to stand,In tender mocking mood."You did not ask for me," she said,"And so I will not let you take my hand;But I must hear what secret talk you plannedWith father. Come, my friend, be good,And tell me your affairs of state:Why you have stayed away and made me waitSo long. Sit down beside me here,--And, do you know, it seems a yearSince we have talked together,--why so late?"Amazed, incredulous, confused with joyI hardly dared to show,And stammering like a boy,I took the place she showed me at her side;And then the talk flowed on with brimming tideThrough the still night,While she with influence lightControlled it, as the moon the flood.She knew where I had been, what I had done,What work was planned, and what begun;My troubles, failures, fears she understood,And touched them with a heart so kind,That every care was melted from my mind,And every hope grew bright,And life seemed moving on to happy ends.(Ah, what self-beggared fool was heThat said a woman cannot beThe very best of friends?)Then there were memories of old times,Recalled with many a gentle jest;And at the last she brought the book of rhymesWe made together, trying to translateThe Songs of Heine (hers were always best)."Now come," she said,"To-night we will collaborateAgain; I'll put you to the test.Here's one I never found the way to do,--The simplest are the hardest ones, you know,--I give this song to you."And then she read:Mein Kind, wir waren Kinder,Zwei Kinder, jung und froh.

But all the while, a silent question stirredWithin me, though I dared not speak the word:"Is it herself, and is she truly here,And was I dreaming when I heardThat she was dead last year?Or was it true, and is she but a shadeWho brings a fleeting joy to eye and ear,Cold though so kind, and will she gently fadeWhen her sweet ghostly part is playedAnd the light-curtain falls at dawn of day?"

But while my heart was troubled by this fearSo deeply that I could not speak it out,Lest all my happiness should disappear,I thought me of a cunning wayTo hide the question and dissolve the doubt."Will you not give me now your hand,Dear Marguerite," I asked, "to touch and hold,That by this token I may understandYou are the same true friend you were of old?"She answered with a smile so bright and calmIt seemed as if I saw the morn ariseIn the deep heaven of her eyes;And smiling so, she laid her palmIn mine. Dear God, it was not coldBut warm with vital heat!"You live!" I cried, "you live, dear Marguerite!"When I awoke; but strangely comforted,Although I knew again that she was dead.

Yes, there's the dream! And was it sweet or sad?Dear mistress of my waking and my sleep,Present reward of all my heart's desire,Watching with me beside the winter fire,Interpret now this vision that I had.But while you read the meaning, let me keepThe touch of you: for the Old Year with stormIs passing through the midnight, and doth shakeThe corners of the house,--and oh! my heart would breakUnless both dreaming and awakeMy hand could feel your hand was warm, warm, warm!