Эва Гор-Бут (Eva Gore-Booth)

The Dreamer

All night I stumble through the fields of light,
And chase in dreams the starry rays divine
That shine through soft folds of the robe of night,
Hung like a curtain round a sacred shrine.

When daylight dawns I leave the meadows sweet
And come back to the dark house built of clay,
Over the threshold pass with lagging feet,
Open the shutters and let in the day.

The gray lit day heavy with griefs and cares,
And many a dull desire and foolish whim,
Leans o’er my shoulder as I spread my wares
On dusty counters and at windows dim.

She gazes at me with her sunken eyes,
That never yet have looked on moonlit flowers,
And amid glaring deeds and noisy cries
Counts out her golden tale of lagging hours.

Over the shrine of life no curtain falls,
All men may enter at the open gate,
The very rats find refuge in her walls—
Her tedious prison walls of love and hate.

Yet when the twilight vails that dim abode
I bar the door and make the shutters fast,
And hurry down the shadowy western road,
To seek in dreams my starlit home and vast.

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