The Eve of St. John

There is a flower, a magical flower,
On which love hath laid a fairy power;
Gather it on the eve of St. John,
When the clock of the village is tolling one;
Let no look be turned, no word be said,
And lay the rose-leaves under your head;
Your sleep will be light, and pleasant your rest,
For your visions will be of the youth you love best.
Four days I had not my own Love seen,—
Where, sighed I, can my wanderer have been?
I thought I would gather the magical flower,
And see him at least in my sleeping hour!—
St. John's Eve came: to the garden I flew,
Where the white roses shone with the silver dew;
The nightingale sang as I passed along—
I started to hear even her sweet song;
The sky was bright with moon and star-shine,
And the wind was sweet as a whisper of thine,
Dear love! for whose sake I stripped the tree-rose,
And softly and silently stole to repose.
No look I turned, and no word I said,
But laid the white roses under my head.
Oh, sweet was the dream that came to me then!
I dreamt of a lonely and lovely glen;
There was a clear and beautiful sky,
Such as is seen in the blue July;
To the north was a forest of darkling pine;
To the south were hills all green with the vine,
Where the ruby clusters sparkled like gems
Seen upon princely diadems;
On the rocks were goats as white as snow,
And the sheep-bell was heard in the valley below;
And like a nest in the chesnut's shade,
As just for love and contentment made,
A little cottage stood, and the tree
Shadowed it over most gracefully;
A white rose grew up beside the door,
The porch with the blossoms was covered o'er;
Methought it was your's—you were standing by:
You welcomed me, and I felt your sigh
Warm on my cheek, and our lips met,—
On mine the touch is thrilling yet!
But, alas! I awakened, and all I can do
Is to tell the sweet dream, my own Love, to you!