The Beautiful Dreams Poem by Alfred W Arrington

Oh! the beautiful dreams which the angels of sleep
Shed in mercy o'er senses that wake but to weep;
How they sparkle like stars, how they whisper like steams
From the morn-tinted mountains--the beautiful dreams!

But a touch of their wing tipped with mystical light,
Like the wand of a wizard evokes from the night
Such a world of enchantment in azure and gold,
As bewilders and dazzles the mind to behold.

And the chime of their voices is sweet in the brain,
As the silvery singing of mild summer rain,--
For they murmer the echo of musical years,
Ere the cheeks of the child have been tarnished with tears.

E'er the beggars that breathe but to murmer and moan,
On their pinions of purple soars up to a throne,
Clad in costume so gorgeous the pride of its hems
Is friled[sic] with the Iris, and flashes with gems.

And the soul that was darkest, when lit with their sheen,
Shines again like a star in the cloudless serene;
And the loved and the lost from the desert of death,
Reappear, with the odors of morn on their breath.

Oh the beautiful dreams! may they smile on me still
When the heart of the sleeper forever is chill;
While enveloped in music, and light, and perfume,
I shall dream of the heavens in spite of the tomb!