To Dream

To sleep, perchance to dream,
as Shakespeare lithely reads,
a dream of old and unforgotten,
from long and lonely roads.
A dream, alas, is but a dream,
With naught but vision's company,
Not touch,
nor sound,
but only sight.
The girl I see among the sun's
final rays on long horizon,
simply clad in flowing white,
I call to her,
so she might turn,
so I may see her face.
I sense a beauty,
calm and gentle,
as the sun that frames her hair.
She turns but I,
in restless sleep,
do turn from side to side.
I did awake to much dismay,
and tried to sleep once more.
But sun and flowers mine eyes did meet,
but she was but a shadow.
The sun did shine,
but she did not.
Her face would I not see but she
would linger in all unforseen
dreams that I might sleeping see,
and even in a waking state,
might see her walking in a crowd,
and chase her will I, but for naught,
for her face I'll never see.
To sleep, perchance to dream,
to meet the one I seek.