Bring not your dreams to me—
Blown dust, and vapour, and the running stream—
Saying, "He, too, doth dream,
Touched of the moon."

Nay! wouldst thou vanish see
Thy darling phantoms,
Bring them then to me!
For my hard business—though so soft it seems—
Was ever dreams and dreams.

And as some stern-eyed broker smiles disdain,
Valuing at nought
Her bosom's locket, with its little chain,
Love's all that Love hath brought;
So must I weigh and measure
Thy fading treasure,
Sighing to see it go
As surely as the snow.

For I have such sad knowledge of all things
That shine like dew a little, all that sings
And ends its song in weeping—
Such sowing and such reaping!—
There is no cure but sleeping.