Alice

Tomorrow’s but a dream, dear Alice, 
In truth, it never appears; 
The past, a tenantless old palace, 
Where hope lies tombed in tears; 
The urn is broken, Alice, 
Whence incense rose above; 
But you may see, if you will, today, 
The magical haunts of love.

My fancy sees a chalice, 
A harp all strung, attuned, 
A famed, enchanted palace, 
Where Cupid oft communed; 
The theme of his dreaming, Alice, 
In waking or sleeping the same, 
A glory that ever dazzles, 
Till it sets the soul a-flame.

Like the burning bush on Horeb, 
Or lit phosphoric seas, 
The dream is metamorphosed, 
And Cupid makes wild pleas, 
For a glance of your dark eyes, Alice, 
And a touch of your lips, my dear, 
For all the bliss of caressing, 
Laughter, and song, and cheer.

’Tis to you and none other, Alice, 
My thought reverts in its flight, 
A little perhaps out of ballas’, 
Perhaps with too much delight; 
So crude, so humble and callous 
That a message it scarce can bear, 
From a heart that wears your image, 
And the passion that fixed it there.

Come thou with me, dear Alice, 
To where there’s building for thee 
A loved, charmed, magical palace, 
Hard by the Mexic sea; 
Where date, and spice and lemon 
Doth blow perpetually, 
By that enchanted palace 
That looks out over the sea.

Tomorrow? That’s cruel, Alice, 
Why speak of a day that is not? 
That spoils the bliss of living, 
Makes mine a miserable lot, 
And love’s enchanted palace 
A wild and desolate place; 
No land of dates and flowers 
Wert blessed without thy grace.