Dreams in Orange

In the orchard dreaming;
of crimson fruit,
Lay I,by the river gleaming
on that unswept route.
The wind brushed soft,
careful not to stir
reveries of a longing expressed oft--
waking in deep slumber.
The sun golden without blaze
shone down on the fall.
Me,on the maples,sprawling in daze,
My little form, my feet bare and small
--prostrate on my pretty bed.
No sound to my ears--
Deft I was led;
with eyes bereft of tears.
Yet I could feel,
Yet I could see,
My cuts so heal,
How deep they be.
My Heart heard far away--
that lovely orchard weeping;
and leaves to each other say:
"Nothing is for the keeping."
And so,to my half-sense.
loss turned sharp;
To rouse from somnolence dense
Unto waking life's harp.
But I dare not budge
from my secret muse--
To the world which held a grudge;
against these falser hues.
And so pass my days--
in the gently wasting sun
at that melancholy place
until life was done.
When sudden,I hear,my lost love
And so,I wake,
I run to the meadow above
To see by the sad lake--
the light of my eyes,
And sobbing, it I hold
Then I realise--
My hands empty, and cold.
"Ah! a dream! Bitter and sweet!"
Say I, laughing loud;
And walk my bruised feet
back to the autumnal crowd.