The Dream

Thus did I dream:

It seemed the afternoon Of some deep, tropic day; and yet the moon Hung, round and bright with golden alchemy, High in a heaven sapphire as the sea. Long, lawny lengths of perishable cloud Templed the west, o’er rolling forests bowed; Clouds raining colors, gold and violet, That, opening, seemed from inner worlds to let Down hints of Parian beauty and lost charms Of old romance, peopled with fairy forms. And all about me fruited orchards grew, Pear, quince, and peach, and plums of dusty blue; Rose-apricots, and apples streaked with fire, Kissed into ripeness by some sun’s desire, And big with juice. And on far, fading hills, Down which it seemed a hundred torrent rills Flashed silent silver, vines and vines and vines Terraced the world with vintage, cooling wines, Pleasant and fragrant as the heart of June, Their delicate tang drawn from the wine-white moon.

And from the clouds o’er this sweet world there dripped An odorous music, strange and feverish-lipped, That swung and swooned and panted as with sighs; Investing at each throb the air with eyes And forms of sensuous spirits, limpid white, Clad on with raiment as of starry night; Fair, frail embodiments of melody, From out whose hearts of crystal one could see The music stream like light through delicate hands Hollowing a lamp. And as on sounding sands The ocean murmur haunts the rosy shells,-- Within whose convolutions beauty dwells,-- My soul became a harp of vibrant love Reëchoing all the harmony above.