A Dream In Early Spring

Now when I sleep the thrush breaks through my dreams     With sharp reminders of the coming day:     After his call, one minute I remain     Unwaked, and on the darkness which is Me     There springs the image of a daffodil,     Growing upon a grassy bank alone,     And seeming with great joy his bell to fill     With drops of golden dew, which on the lawn     He shakes again, where they lie bright and chill.     His head is drooped; the shrouded winds that sing     Bend him which way they will: never on earth     Was there before so beautiful a ghost.     Alas! he had a less than flower-birth,     And like a ghost indeed must shortly glide     From all but the sad cells of memory,     Where he will linger, an imprisoned beam,     Or fallen shadow of the golden world,     Long after this and many another dream.