A mist air-castle sits back in the dusk
where brownies and hobgoblins dwell
And this is the home
Of a busy old gnome
who is making up dream-things to sell,
He makes golden dreams of wicked men's sighs.
He weaves on the thread of a hope
The airiest fancies of pretty brown eyes,
And patterns his work with a trope.
The breath of a rose and the blush of a wish
Boiled down to the ghost of a bliss,
He wraps in a smile
Every once in a while
And calls it the dream of a kiss,
The dream of an unborn kiss.
Last night when I walked thro` the portals of sleep
And came to the weird little den,
I looked in the place where the elf-man should keep
A dream that I buy now and then.
`Tis only the sweet happy dream of a day-
Yet one that I wish may come true-
But I learned from the elf
That you'd been there yourself
And he'd given my dear dream to you,
He'd given our dream to you.