Dreams

    When the snow was deep on the flower-beds,
        And the sleet was caked on the brier;
    When the frost was down in the brown bulbs' heads,
        And the ways were clogged with mire;

    When the wind to syringa and bare rose-tree
        Brought the phantoms of vanished flowers,
    And the days were sorry as sorry could be,
        And Time limped cursing his fardle of hours:

    Heigho! had I not a book and the logs?
        And I swear that I wasn't mistaken,
    But I heard the frogs croaking in far-off bogs,
        And the brush-sparrow's song in the braken.

    And I strolled by paths which the Springtide knew,
        In her mossy dells, by her ferny passes,
    Where the ground was holy with flowers and dew,
        And the ins...

I sought a theme and sought for it in vain,
I sought it daily for six weeks or so.
Maybe at last, being but a broken man,
I must be satisfied with my heart, although
Winter and summer till old age began
My circus animals were all on show,
Those stilted boys, that burnished chariot,
Lion and woman and the Lord knows what.
II
What can I but enumerate old themes?
First that sea-rider Oisin led by the nose
Through three enchanted islands, allegorical dreams,
Vain gaiety, vain battle, vain repose,
Themes of the embittered heart, or so it seems,
That might adorn old songs or courtly shows;
But what cared I that set him on to ride,
I, starved for the bosom of his faery bride?

And then a counter-truth filled out its play,
i(The Countess Cathleen) was t...

We are tired who follow after
Phantasy and truth that flies:
You with only look and laughter
Stain our hearts with richest dyes.

When you break upon our study
Vanish all our frosty cares;
As the diamond deep grows ruddy,
Filled with morning unawares.

With the stuff that dreams are made of
But an empty house we build:
Glooms we are ourselves afraid of,
By the ancient starlight chilled.

All unwise in thought or duty--
Still our wisdom envies you:
We who lack the living beauty
Half our secret knowledge rue.

Thought nor fear in you nor dreaming
Veil the light with mist about;
Joy, as through a crystal gleaming,
Flashes from the gay heart out.

Pain and penitence forsaking,
Hearts like cloisters dim and grey,

A long, low waste of yellow sand
Lay shining northward far as eye could reach,
Southward a rocky bluff rose high
Broken in wild, fantastic shapes.
Near by, one jagged rock towered high,
And o'er the waters leaned, like giant grim,
Striving to peer into the mysteries
The ocean whispers of continually,
And covers with her soft, treacherous face.
For the rest, the sun was sinking low
Like a great golden globe, into the sea;
Above the rock a bird was flying
In dizzy circles, with shrill cries,
And on a plank floated from some wreck,
With shreds of musty seaweed
Clinging to it yet, a woman sat
Holding a child within her arms;
A sweet-faced woman - looking out to sea
With dark, patient eyes, and singing to the child,
And this the song she in the sunse...

    O you who lose the art of hope,
    Whose temples seem to shrine a lie,
    Whose sidewalks are but stones of fear,
    Who weep that Liberty must die,
    Turn to the little prairie towns,
    Your higher hope shall yet begin.
    On every side awaits you there
    Some gate where glory enters in.

    Yet when I see the flocks of girls,
    Watching the Sunday train go thro'
    (As tho' the whole wide world went by)
    With eyes that long to travel too,
    I sigh, despite my soul made glad
    By cloudy dresses and brown hair,
    Sigh for the sweet life wrenched and torn
    By thundering commerce, fierce and bare.
    Nymphs of the wheat these girls should be:
    Kings of the grove, their lovers strong.
    Why are they not inspired,...

        We were driving home from the "Patriarchs'"
            Molly Lefévre and I, you know;
        The white flakes fluttered about our lamps;
            Our wheels were hushed in the sleeping snow.

        Her white arms nestled amid her furs;
            Her hands half-held, with languid grace,
        Her fading roses; fair to see
            Was the dreamy look in her sweet, young face.

        I watched her, saying never a word,
            For I would not waken those dreaming eyes.
        The breath of the roses filled the air,
            And my thoughts were many, and far from wise.

        At last I said to her, bending near,
            "Ah, Molly Lefévre, how sweet 'twould be,
        To ride on dreaming, all our lives,
          ...

In youth I dreamed, as other youths have dreamt,
    Of love, and thrummed an amateur guitar
To verses of my own,--a stout attempt
    To hold communion with the Evening Star
I wrote a sonnet, rhymed it, made it scan.
Ah me! how trippingly those last lines ran.--

O Hesperus!    O happy star! to bend
    O'er Helen's bosom in the tranced west,
To match the hours heave by upon her breast,
    And at her parted lip for dreams attend--
If dawn defraud thee, how shall I be deemed,
Who house within that bosom, and am dreamed?

For weeks I thought these lines remarkable;
    For weeks I put on airs and called myself
A bard: till on a day, as it befell,
    I took a small green Moxon from the shelf
At random, opened at a casual place,
And found ...

    If your thoughts were as clear as your eyes,
    And the whole of your heart were true,
    You were fitter by far for winning,
    But then that would not be you.

    If your pulse beat time to love
    As fast as you think and plan,
    You could kindle a lasting passion
    In the breast of the strongest man.

    If you felt as much as you thought,
    And dreamed what you seem to dream,
    A world of elysian beauty
    Your ruined heart would redeem.

    If you thought in the light of the sun,
    Or the blood in your veins flowed free,
    If you gave your kisses but gladly,
    We two could better agree.

    If you were strong where I counted,
    And weak where yourself were at stake,
    You would have my strength...

In my garden, O Beloved!
Many pleasant trees are growing,
Peach, and apricot, and apple,
Myrtle, lilac, and laburnum.

Fair are they, but midst them lonely,
Like an exiled Eastern Princess
In a strange land far from kindred,
Stands a lonely fair Pomegranate.

Dreaming of its native Orient
Always is the fair Pomegranate,
And beneath it I lie dreaming
Of thine eyes and thee, Beloved!

Overhead its red globes, gleaming
Like red moons, old tales recall of
Eastern moons and songs of Hafiz,
Nightingales, and wine, and roses.

And at times it seems a mystic
Tree Circéan, whose red fruit is
Broken hearts of old-time lovers,
Thus their secrets sad revealing.

And within each red sun-cloven
Glossy globe, like little rosy...

    Sleep is a pathless labyrinth,
    Dark to the gaze of moons and suns,
    Through which the colored clue of dreams,
    A gossamer thread, obscurely runs.