Anna Callender Brackett (1836–1911)

’T WAS a vision, a dream of the night,

When deep sleep falleth on man;

Out of the shadowless darkness it glided

Into shadowless darkness again.

Afloat upon silentest waters

On the smooth, slow waves I lay,

And through them I saw, but dimly,

The round white lilies sway.

Then I reached down my careful fingers,

And drew them, one by one,

Out of the smoky water

Up into the shine of the sun.

White-bosomed and golden-hearted,

And sweet—for I tried, to see,—

I drew them by slippery stemlets,

One by one, up to me.

Then I turned on my side, and broke them,

Stem by stem, with my teeth,

But the broad green leaves I left floating

In the water underneath.

I blew open the pink-white petals

To the yellow-dusted core,

And I counted them as I held them,

One, and two, and three, and four.

Then they drooped their heads as weary

Till the cool petals touched my hand—

Did I drop them into the water?

Did I ever float to land?—

Who knows? Out of shadowless darkness

To shadowless darkness they grew,

But they haunt me, my four white lilies

Till I gather them anew.