I often dream this vivid dream so droll:
An unknown whom I love, and who loves me;
And who, each time, is not the same, you see,
Nor truly other, yet who loves me whole.
She loves me whole, my heart, whose truth unfolds
To her alone, alas! no problem wields
For her alone, my pale brow's dampest fields
Alone can she refresh, with teardrops rolled.
A blonde, brunette, or redhead? I know not.
Her name? My memory says sonorous, soft,
Like those beloved whom this Life's expelled.
Her gaze resembles those of statues grim,
Whereas her voice, so distant, grave, and quelled,
Recalls dear voices now in silent hymn.