The Oxford Book of Canadian Verse
Where Dreams Are SoldJean Graham
A
At a shop which is never old,
Where a twilight silence lingers—
It is there that dreams are sold.
The soft echo of childhood’s laugh,
There ’s the ring of empty glasses,
For the white lips never quaff.
We all come when the daylight dies,
When the curfew music echoes,
’Neath the grey of evening skies.
Where the grim toll of death we pay,
We shall find the shop of dream-ware
Where the poppies hang alway.
When, with wealth of no earthly gold,
We shall come where sleep-flowers cluster,
To the shop where dreams are sold.