Dream and delight had passed away,
Their springs dried by the dusty day,
And sordid fetters bound me tight,
Forged for poor song by money-might;
I writhed, and could not get away.
There might have been no flowering may
In all the world--life looked so gray
With dust of railways, choking quite
Dream and delight.
When, lo! your white book came my way,
With scent of honey-buds and hay,
Starshine and day-dawns pure and bright,
The rose blood-red, the may moon-white.
I owe you--would I could repay--
Dream and delight.