Levi Frisbie (1784–1822)

STAY, stay, sweet vision, do not leave me—

Soft sleep, still o’er my senses reign;

Stay, loveliest phantom, still deceive me;

Ah! let me dream that dream again.

Thy head was on my shoulder leaning;

Thy hand in mine was gently prest;

Thine eyes so soft and full of meaning,

Were bent on me and I was blest.

No word was spoken, all was feeling,

The silent transport of the heart;

The tear that o’er my cheek was stealing;

Told what words could ne’er impart.

And could this be but mere illusion?

Could fancy all so real seem?

Here fancy’s scenes are wild confusion—

And can it be I did but dream.

I ’m sure I felt thy forehead pressing,

Thy very breath stole o’er my cheek,

I ’m sure I saw those eyes confessing

What the tongue could never speak.

Ah! no, ’t is gone, ’t is gone, and never

Mine such waking bliss can be;

Oh I would sleep, would sleep for ever,

Could I thus but dream of thee.