Dreams poems/ page 7 of 232 /
In joyous Summer, when the exulting earthFlung fragrance from innumerable flowersThrough the wide wastes of heaven, as on she tookIn solitude her everlasting way,I stood among the mountain heights, alone!The beauteous mountains, which the voyagerOn Hudson's breast far in the purple westMagnificent, beholds; the abutments broadWhence springs the immeasurable dome of heaven
Dearest, and yet more dear than I can tell In these poor halting rhymes, when, word by word, You spell the passion that your beauty stirredSwiftly to flame, and holds me as a spell,You will not think he writeth "ill" or "well", Nor question make of the fond truths averred, But Love, of that, by Love's self charactered, A perfect understanding shall impel
I A palace and a prison on each hand: I saw from out the wave her structures rise As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand: A thousand years their cloudy wings expand Around me, and a dying Glory smiles O'er the far times, when many a subject land Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles,Where Venice sate in state, thron'd on her hundred isles!
II Rising with her tiara of proud towers At airy distance, with majestic motion, A ruler of the waters and their powers: And such she was; her daughters had their dowers From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers
The land I came thro' last was dumb with night,a limbo of defeated glory, a ghost:for wreck of constellations flicker'd perishingscarce sustain'd in the mortuary air,and on the ground and out of livid poolswreck of old swords and crowns glimmer'd at whiles;I seem'd at home in some old dream of kingship:now it is clear grey day and the road is plain,I am the wanderer of many yearswho cannot tell if ever he was kingor if ever kingdoms were: I know I amthe wanderer of the ways of all the worlds,to whom the sunshine and the rain are oneand one to stay or hasten, because he knowsno ending of the way, no home, no goal,and phantom night and the grey day alikewithhold the heart where all my dreams and daysmight faint in soft fire and delicious death:and saying this to myself as a simple thingI feel a peace fall in the heart of the windsand a clear dusk settle, somewhere, far in me
Autumn: the year breathes dully towards its death,beside its dying sacrificial fire;the dim world's middle-age of vain desireis strangely troubled, waiting for the breaththat speaks the winter's welcome malisonto fix it in the unremembering sleep:the silent woods brood o'er an anxious deep,and in the faded sorrow of the sun,I see my dreams' dead colours, one by one,forth-conjur'd from their smouldering palaces,fade slowly with the sigh of the passing year