At dawn she lay with her profile at that angleĀ 
Which, when she sleeps, seems the carved face of an angel.Ā 
Her hair a harp, the hand of a breeze followsĀ 
And plays, against the white cloud of the pillows.Ā 
Then, in a flush of rose, she woke and her eyes that openedĀ 
Swam in blue through her rose flesh that dawned.Ā 
From her dew of lips, the drop of one wordĀ 
Fell like the first of fountains: murmuredĀ 
‘Darling’, upon my ears the song of the first bird.Ā 
‘My dream becomes my dream,’ she said, ‘come true.Ā 
I waken from you to my dream of you.’Ā 
Oh, my own wakened dream then dared assumeĀ 
The audacity of her sleep. Our dreamsĀ 
Poured into each other’s arms, like streams.

Stephen Spender

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *