Dreams. To ... ....

A poem by Thomas Moore

In slumber, I prithee how is it
That souls are oft taking the air,
And paying each other a visit,
While bodies are heaven knows where?

Last night, 'tis in vain to deny it,
Your soul took a fancy to roam,
For I heard her, on tiptoe so quiet,
Come ask, whether mine was at home.

And mine let her in with delight,
And they talked and they laughed the time through;
For, when souls come together at night,
There is no saying what they mayn't do!

And your little Soul, heaven bless her!
Had much to complain and to say,
Of how sadly you wrong and oppress her
By keeping her prisoned all day.

"If I happen," said she, "but to steal
"For a peep now and then to her eye,
"Or, to quiet the fever I feel,
"Just venture abroad on a sigh;

"In an instant she frightens me in
"With some phantom of prudence or terror,
"For fear I should stray into sin,
"Or, what is still worse, into error!

"So, instead of displaying my graces,
"By daylight, in language and mien,
"I am shut up in corners and places,
"Where truly I blush to be seen!"

Upon hearing this piteous confession,
My Soul, looking tenderly at her,
Declared, as for grace and discretion,
He did not know much of the matter;

"But, to-morrow, sweet Spirit!" he said,
"Be at home, after midnight, and then
"I will come when your lady's in bed,
"And we'll talk o'er the subject again."

So she whispered a word in his ear,
I suppose to her door to direct him,
And, just after midnight, my dear,
Your polite little Soul may expect him.