These are my scales to weigh reality,—
A dream, a chord, a longing, love of Thee.
Real as the violets of April days,
Or those soft-hid in unfrequented ways;
Real as the noiseless tune to which we tread
The measure we by life’s old song are led;
Real as man’s wonder what his soul may be,—
A guest for time or for eternity.
Real as...