Old Poetry Poetry • Poets • Essays • Forums •

At The Year's End

Night dreams of day, and winter seems
In sleep to breathe the balm of May.
Their dreams are true anon; but they,
The dreamers, then, alas, are dreams.


Thus, while our days the dreams renew
Of some forgotten sleeper, we,
The dreamers of futurity,
Shall vanish when our own are true.

Leave a guest comment (subject to review)

    : Comment:

    Name: (required)
    Email: (required, hidden from spam)