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
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.”