Reason To Imagination Poem by Peter John Allan

Where linger my love? In what peaceful vale
Of the land of dreams is she lingering now,
Where the spirit sad of the nightingale
Is warbling sweet from bough to bough;
And the witching beam of her own bright star
Is blent with the light of her heavenly eyes;
While fearless and pure, as the angels are,
She wanders away beneath cloudless skies?

Return thee, my love! for the breast is cold
And cheerless and dark, where thou didst repose;
With thy sunny brown, and thy locks of gold,
And thy cheek, whose blush was the opening rose;
In the lonely night (but when thou wert near,
How welcome the hours of the night to me!)
When my eyelids droop, they droop with a tear,
For slumber is fled, my beloved, with thee.

Oh! come thou again, ere I sink and die,
Rememb'ring the joys that are past away;
And the lute you loved shall sweetly reply
To thy melting voice and mournful lay;
Come, come thou again in thy perfect love,
And never, my life, will I faithless be;
In the earth below, or in heaven above,
Where'er thou wouldst go, I will go with thee.