Poetry Archives

When the world is fast asleep,
    Along the midnight skies—
As though it were a wandering cloud—
    The ghostly dream-ship flies.

An angel stands at the dream-ship’s helm,
    An angel stands at the prow,
And an angel stands at the dream-ship’s side
    With a rue-wreath on her brow.

The other angels, silver-crowned,
    Pilot and helmsman are,
And the angel with the wreath of rue
    Tosseth the dreams afar.

The dreams they fall on rich and poor;
    They fall on young and old;
And some are dreams of poverty,
    And some are dreams of gold.

And some are dreams that thrill with joy,
    And some that melt to tears;
Some are dreams of the dawn of love,
    And some of the old dead years.

On rich and poor alike they fall,
    Alike on young and old,
Bringing to slumbering earth their joys
    And sorrows manifold.

The friendless youth in them shall do
    The deeds of mighty men,
And drooping age shall feel the grace
    Of buoyant youth again.

The king shall be a beggarman—
    The pauper be a king—
In that revenge or recompense
    The dream-ship dreams do bring.

So ever downward float the dreams
    That are for all and me,
And there is never mortal man
    Can solve that mystery.

But ever onward in its course
    Along the haunted skies—
As though it were a cloud astray—
    The ghostly dream-ship flies.

Two angels with their silver crowns
    Pilot and helmsman are,
And an angel with a wreath of rue
    Tosseth the dreams afar.