Oh, there is a being that haunteth my dreams
When night sendeth slumber to me,
So like thee that of ten in waking it seems
It cannot be other than thee.
But the eyes of the one in dreams I behold
Beam lovingly ever on me,
With tenderness touching, and pathos untold,
So therefore it cannot be thee.
The hand like the hand of an angel of light
Is minist'ring ever to me;
I wake with a sigh from my trance of delight
And murmur, Love, would it were thee!
But could that sweet voice to another belong,
That does o'er my dreaming ear sweep?
As soft as the sound of the oak's evensong,
While lulling the lilies to sleep.
Yes, yes, thy bright eyes have the same sunny beam
Ne'er held by another than thee.
And thou, the bright being that haunteth my dreams,
Will make earth an Eden for me.
