The Wonder of Dreams by Mabel Forrest

Dear dreams! How the sharp-sorrow passes;
   How feeble the mem'ry of pain!
The moon is frost-white on the grasses,
   The grasses of Brigalow Plain.   

In the dusk of the scrub I am waiting,
   Glad now for the shelter of trees,
As your horse turns; his quick stride abating
   To pressure of leather and knees.  

Oh! shine not, fair moonlight, too brightly,
   And rend not the shadows apart,
Where warm hands are clinging so tightly,  
   The heart lying close to the heart.  

The wind in the boughs beats a measure,
   A fairy song, silv'ry with bliss;   
Two arms can enfold all our treasure,
   Stamped safe with the seal of a kiss.  

How real! . . . (Yet a marvel of dreaming!)
   Away from my heart falls its load;   
The frosty-white moonlight is streaming  
   As of old upon trees and on road.    

How real! . . the fond words you are saying,
   Reclaiming the promise I gave.
I wake . . and the warm wind is playing   
   And whispering -- over a grave.    

First published in The Australian Town and Country Journal, 8 March 1905.

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.