Sometimes I dream that you are back with me,
And that with hands together clasped we go
Like little children, young and glad and free,
A-down a magic road we used to know.
Sometimes I dream your eyes upon my face,
And feel your fingers softly touch my hair....
And when I wake from dreaming all the place,
Seems lonelier because you are not there.
What is a dream? Not very much, they say,
An idle vision made in castled Spain-