Dreams

Tell me, what kind of wondrous dreams

are embracing my senses,

that have not, like sea-foam,

vanished into desolate Nothingness?

Dreams, that with each passing hour,

each passing day, bloom fairer,

and with their heavenly tidings

roam blissfully through my heart!

Dreams which, like holy rays of light

sink into the soul,

there to paint an eternal image:

forgiving all, thinking of only One.

Dreams which, when the Spring sun

kisses the blossoms from the snow,

so that into unsuspected bliss

they greet the new day,

so that they grow, so that they bloom,

and dreaming, bestow their fragrance,

these dreams gently glow and fade on your breast,

and then sink into the grave.