Whenever I dreamed, I seemed to set
Some faded poem in motion, yet,
I’ve only recalled but one vignette,
But one vignette, repeating;

A shadow of one who came to me
On the tide of some deep empathy,
Who beckoned once in her beauty, she
Who came with love, entreating:

‘If ever you wake before you sleep
To find the dreams of your future, keep
From looking on, for you may pretend
But never will dreams of the future mend.’

‘I am your scheme, your web, the power,
The architect of each sleeping hour,
I fill the pool of your wasted skies
With all the trappings of lovers eyes.’

‘I trip your switch, I flood your mind,
I fill your visions with humankind,
But none of the dreams that come your way
Should ever be seen by the light of day.’

I took her words as another dream
For I couldn’t believe the sight I’d seen,
And woke one night before I’d slept
To see where my future dreams were kept.

My nights are bleak, and cold, and chill
For I have stared, and drunk my fill,
And nothing has ever been what it seemed;
I spend my days in a waking dream.

David Lewis Paget