Samuel Alfred Beadle


 Next Poem          

Tomorrow 's but a dream, dear Alice,
In truth, it never appears;
The past, a tenantless old palace,
Where hope lies tombed in tears;
The urn is broken, Alice,
Whence incense rose above;
But you may see, if you will, today,
The magical haunts of love.

My fancy sees a chalice,
A harp all strung, attuned,
A famed, enchanted palace,
Where Cupid oft communed;
The theme of his dreaming, Alice,
In waking or sleeping the same,
A glory that ever dazzles,
Till it sets the soul a-flame.

Like the burning bush on Horeb,
Or lit phosphoric seas,
The dream is metamorphosed,
And Cupid makes wild pleas,
For a glance of your dark eyes, Alice,
And a touch of your lips, my dear,
For all the bliss of caressing,
Laughter, and song, and cheer.

'Tis to you and none other, Alice,
My thought reverts in its flight,
A little perhaps out of ballas',
Perhaps with too much delight;
So crude, so humble and callous
That a message it scarce can bear,
From a heart that wears your image,
And the passion that fixed it there.

Come thou with me, dear Alice,
To where there's building for thee
A loved, charmed, magical palace,
Hard by the Mexic sea;
Where date, and spice and lemon
Doth blow perpetually,
By that enchanted palace
That looks out over the sea.

Tomorrow? That's cruel, Alice,
Why speak of a day that is not?
That spoils the bliss of living,
Makes mine a miserable lot,
And love's enchanted palace
A wild and desolate place;
No land of dates and flowers
Wert blessed without thy grace.

Next Poem 

 Back to Samuel Alfred Beadle