"So pulse, and pulse, thou rhythmic-hearted Noon That liest, large-limbed, curved along the hills,
In languid palpitation, half a-swoon With ardors and sun-loves and subtle thrills;"Throb,
Beautiful! while the fervent hours exhale As kisses faint-blown from thy
Up to the sun, that turn him passion-pale And then as red as any virgin's lips."O tender Darkness, when June-day hath ceased, — Faint Odor from the day-flower's crushing born,— Dim, visible Sigh out of the mournful East That cannot see her lord again till morn:"And many leaves, broad-palmed towards the sky To catch the sacred raining of star-light:
And pallid petals, fain, all fain to die,
Soul-stung by too keen passion of the night:"And short-breath'd winds, under yon gracious moon Doing mild errands for mild violets,
Or carrying sighs from the red lips of June What aimless way the odor-current sets:"And stars, ringed glittering in whorls and bells,
Or bent along the sky in looped star-sprays,
Or vine-wound, with bright grapes in panicles,
Or bramble-tangled in a sweetest maze,"Or lying like young lilies in a lake About the great white Lotus of the moon,
Or blown and drifted, as if winds should shake Star blossoms down from silver stems too soon,"Or budding thick about full open stars,
Or clambering shyly up cloud-lattices,
Or trampled pale in the red path of Mars,
Or trim-set in quaint gardener's fantasies:"And long June night-sounds crooned among the leaves,
And whispered confidence of dark and green,
And murmurs in old moss about old eaves,
And tinklings floating over water-sheen!"Then he that wrote laid down his pen and sighed;
And straightway came old Scorn and Bitterness,
Like Hunnish kings out of the barbarous land,
And camped upon the transient
That he had dreamed to blossom in his soul."I'll date this dream," he said; "so: `Given, these,
On this, the coldest night in all the year,
From this, the meanest garret in the world,
In this, the greatest city in the land,
To you, the richest folk this side of death,
By one, the hungriest poet under heaven,— Writ while his candle sputtered in the gust,
And while his last, last ember died of cold,
And while the mortal ice i' the air made
Of all his bones and bit and shrunk his heart,
And while soft Luxury made show to
Her gloved hands together and to
What time her weary feet
Trode wheels that lifted Avarice to power,— And while, moreover, — O thou God, thou God —His worshipful sweet wife sat still, afar,
Within the village whence she sent him
Into the town to make his name and fame,
Waiting, all confident and proud and calm,
Till he should make for her his name and fame,
Waiting — O Christ, how keen this cuts! — large-eyed,
With Baby Charley till her husband
For her and him a poet's name and fame.'— Read me," he cried, and rose, and stamped his
Impatiently at Heaven, "read me this,"(Putting th' inquiry full in the face of God)"Why can we poets dream us beauty, so,
But cannot dream us bread? Why, now, can
Make, aye, create this fervid throbbing
Out of the chill, chill matter of my soul,
Yet cannot make a poorest
Out of this same chill matter, no, not
For Mary though she starved upon my breast?" And then he fell upon his couch, and sobbed,
And, late, just when his heart leaned
The very edge of breaking, fain to fall,
God sent him sleep. There came his room-fellow,
Stout Dick, the painter, saw the written dream,
Read, scratched his curly pate, smiled, winked, fell
The poem in big-hearted comic rage,
Quick folded, thrust in envelope,
To him, the critic-god, that sitteth
And giant-grisly on the stone
That leadeth to his magazine and fame.
Him, by due mail, the little Dream of
Encountered growling, and at
Stole in upon his poem-battered
So that he smiled, — then shook his head upon 't— Then growled, then smiled again, till at the last,
As one that deadly sinned against his will,
He writ upon the margin of the DreamA wondrous, wondrous word that in a
Did turn the fleeting song to very bread,— Whereat Dick Painter leapt, the poet wept,
And Mary slept with happy drops
Upon long lashes of her serene
From twentieth reading of her poet's
Quick-sent, "O sweet my Sweet, to dream is power,
And I can dream thee bread and dream thee wine,
And I will dream thee robes and gems, dear Love,
To clothe thy holy loveliness withal,
And I will dream thee here to live by me,
Thee and my little man thou hold'st at breast,— Come,
Name, come,
Fame, and kiss my Sweetheart's feet!"
