the flowers upon my lady’s hat,

kept bobbing so this way then that,

until the church seemed faint and blurred

the morning psalms i scarcely heard.

unless i see i cannot hear,

so, i just admired that flower so near.

’twas unlike any bloom that blows

on trees or waves in garden rows,

where clings the morning glory vine

or beds of phlox or columbine,

like nothing in the drowsy south

with love songs oozing from its mouth,

in all the languorous, summer noons

or riotous breaths of all perfumes,

like nothing in my garden bed

of flowers washed blue or drenched red;

peculiarly designed it sat

and nodded on my lady’s hat.

i summoned all my powers to wit

but could not find a name for it.

i sought my couch with troubled breast,

i could not from my memory wrest{74}

the name of that tormenting bloom,

till wearied tossing, then i swooned

into forgetfulness and dreamed

of lands beyond where sunlight streamed,

in gardens where an angel talked

in soft glad whispers as he walked.

and touched each blossoming bud and bell

with pride and love ineffable.

but one he loved beyond compare;

he stooped and kissed the petals rare.

with eagerness i did persist

to see the flower the angel kissed.

and there it grew a thing intact,

the flower upon my lady’s hat.

it stood a straight slim tossing flame

and i had yet to learn its name.

with this in mind i tried to talk,

but the angel only sped his walk.

i could have cried for very shame,

then someone called me by my name.

the room was pink with morning light,

because dreams vanish with the night;

and things are not what they seem,

i called the little flower “dream.”