THE DEAD SOUL by ANNIE MATHESON

I DREAMED such a horrible dream last night,
It smote me through with a cold affright,
And would not go with the dawning light
Like other lies;
For in dreams men often meet a guess,
Or a wandering thought in bodily dress,
A visible 'No' or a tangible 'Yes'
To some dim surmise.

What was that horrible thing I dreamed?
I met a man—or a man he seemed,
As the noonday sunlight over him streamed,
Till, thrilled with dread,
I saw when my soul looked his soul through,
As only in dreams a soul can do,
That, though brain and body lived and grew,
His soul was dead.

Yes, there he stood, a creature indeed,
That could walk and talk and drink and feed,
And add up figures, and write and read,
And work and wed—

And all with automatic neatness,
Smiling even with studied sweetness,
And quite enjoying life's completeness,
The life he led.

Till at last as I saw him standing there
With never a hope and never a care,
His dead soul set in a stony stare,
'Poor soul,' I said,
'And wilt thou never feel again
Divinest joy, most God-like pain,
Love in which self is lost and slain?
Art thou quite dead?'

And then in my pity I cried aloud,
'Oh, give to this poor dead soul a shroud,
And hide him away from the living crowd
In some narrow bed.
Oh, merciful heaven, give him a grave,
Or send some fire that will cleanse and save
And quicken again the soul God gave,
The soul that's dead!'

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