On rainy days old dreams arise,
    From graves where they have lonely lain;
With wan white cheeks and mournful eyes,
    They press against the window pane.
One dream is bolder than the rest:
    She enters at the door and stays,
A welcome yet unbidden guest
       On rainy days.

On rainy days, my dream and I
    Turn back the hands of memory's books:
We sup on pleasures long gone by--
    We drink of unforgotten brooks;
We ransack garrets of the Past,
    We sing old songs, we play old plays;
While hurrying Time looks on aghast,
       On rainy days.

On rainy days, my ghostly dreams
    Come clothed in garments like the mist,
But through that vapoury veiling, gleams
    The lustrous eyes my lips have kissed.
A radiant head leans on my heart,
    We walk in well-remembered ways;
But oh! the sorrow when we part,
       On rainy days.

Yesterdays. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
London: Gay & Hancock, 1916.

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