One who, the self-same morning, had decoyed The widow and her son with glozing talk, At eve through springing pastures walked abroad, And, after his poor sort, enjoyed his walk. That night he dreamed: fresh flowers and April grass Smothered his cruel pen; the white lamb kneeled Upon his crafty parchments, signed and sealed By victim hands; a babbling stream did pass Sheer through those written wiles, till that base ink, Which robb'd the widow's mite, the orphan's dole, Lost colour. But that dream-begotten blink Of damage waked at once his mammon-soul; From his keen glance all vernal tokens shrink While Fraud and Twilight watch the lying scroll. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DOMESDAY BOOK: ANTON SOSNOWSKI by EDGAR LEE MASTERS HIRAM POWERS' GREEK SLAVE by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH: A DREAM OF PONCE DE LEON by HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH VERSES TO AN INFANT by BERNARD BARTON A WINTER TWILIGHT by ARLO BATES |