Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.
By JosephO’Connor810 What Was My Dream?
W
I hold no memory of the potent thing,
Yet feel the force of it—a creeping fear,
A hope, a horror, and a sense austere
Of revelation, stayed at thought’s extreme:
As when the wind is passed, the pines still swing;
Or when the storm has blown, the waves yet fling
To shore the battered corpse and shattered beam;
So sways my troubled mind. What was my dream?
With marching giants marshalled to and fro
As if for strife? A moonlit river’s tide,
Where every form I love may be descried
Afloat and past all effort to redeem?
A garden rare, with Nature all aglow
Among her fruits and flowers, that, as they grow,
Breathe perfumed melody, full glad to teem
With every germ of life? What was my dream?
That elemental ether doth immerse,
With matter in a wild disorder hurled,
And primal forces in contention whirled,
A senseless demon over all supreme,
Who seeks with apish malice to reverse
Creative influences, and coerce
A universe to death, and bring its scheme
To chaos whence it came? What was my dream?
May keep for me, perchance, a glimpse or glint;
Some Hebrew prophet’s vision may unroll
Its veils and show this secret of the soul;
At times, among the murmurs of a stream,
I catch the far, faint echo of a hint,—
Or seem to feel in some suggestive tint,
Where golden glories of the sunset gleam,
A presence unrevealed. What was my dream?
Thrills with a touch of the strong mystery;
The buds of spring, the leaves of autumn strown,
The tempest’s flashing blade and braggart tone
Remind me of the unremembered theme.
Where billows curve along the shining sea,
It breaks through lucent green in foamy glee,
And hides uncaught; not seldom do I deem
Love’s sigh its harbinger? What was my dream?