Edgar Fawcett (1847–1904)

ONCE amid sleep I saw the twelve sweet Hours

Go lightly along, gay sisters, hand in hand,

Some with gold flexuous hair and faces bland,

Some dusky as night and wearing stars like flowers.

“Ah, lovely!” I murmured,—but the secret powers

Of slumber, issuing an occult command,

Changed these fair wanderers to a mournful band

That moved with earthward brows through leafless bowers.

Then faintly across my dream a voice was borne.

“The forms you first beheld, so blithe of mien,

Look thus to eyes that hope’s warm glory cheers;

While they that walk funereal and forlorn,

Though still the same, by differing eyes are seen

Through shadow of anguish and cold mist of tears.”