The Long Dream
THE summer will come with a fresh perfume
Where all the brown leaves are lying,
And the windy air with a blush and bloom,
Like a shuttle blown through a silken loom,
In the delicate foliage plying.
Where all the brown leaves are lying,
And the windy air with a blush and bloom,
Like a shuttle blown through a silken loom,
In the delicate foliage plying.
The morning will gather its colors anew,
As sweet as a girlish promise,
Of green and golden and rose and blue,
To weave fresh violets out of the dew
As bright as the ones stolen from us.
As sweet as a girlish promise,
Of green and golden and rose and blue,
To weave fresh violets out of the dew
As bright as the ones stolen from us.
As I lie at ease in my last repose,
All the beauty about me woven,
Like the cunning of sense that inward flows,
I shall feel in the blush that dyes the rose
And the germ when its husk is cloven.
All the beauty about me woven,
Like the cunning of sense that inward flows,
I shall feel in the blush that dyes the rose
And the germ when its husk is cloven.
And the rootlets find their way under-ground
Through the toils of the season’s malice,
Till I know how the coil of sense is wound
To the far-off stars in the depths profound,
Where Earth seems a golden palace.
Through the toils of the season’s malice,
Till I know how the coil of sense is wound
To the far-off stars in the depths profound,
Where Earth seems a golden palace.
But you will not know of the watch I keep
Where the flow of the senses all pass,
Like a dreamer, who hears the stir and creep
Of the wind, while gently I lie asleep
Under the broad-leafed catalpas.
Where the flow of the senses all pass,
Like a dreamer, who hears the stir and creep
Of the wind, while gently I lie asleep
Under the broad-leafed catalpas.
Will Wallace Harney.