 | A Book of Dreams |  |
24
A HOLIDAY.
A fresh new day dawns for the world and me,
And all the day is consciously my own.
I am alone, and free, and without care;
Having forgotten all that went before,
Having no guess of anything to come;
Unchained to any ceaseless wheel of toil.
Hunger and thirst are not importunate,
There is no weariness of brain or limb,
Nor any failing of the even pulse,
To make the merely living less of joy.
I am not haunted by the absent eyes,
I am not longing for the parted hand;
My heart is all my own, my life is mine;
All is unknown and new, and I myself
Am to myself unknown; and where I am
Is unknown to me, also whence I came.
If any shadow, as I dimly dream,
Hovers around, if there be anywhere
A common lot in which the common life
Is woven out of twisted dusty strands,
Inextricably mixed in cross and care,
At least I am outside of it to-day,
I have awakened in another sphere.
And all the day is consciously my own.
I am alone, and free, and without care;
Having forgotten all that went before,
Having no guess of anything to come;
Unchained to any ceaseless wheel of toil.
Hunger and thirst are not importunate,
There is no weariness of brain or limb,
Nor any failing of the even pulse,
To make the merely living less of joy.
I am not haunted by the absent eyes,
I am not longing for the parted hand;
My heart is all my own, my life is mine;
All is unknown and new, and I myself
Am to myself unknown; and where I am
Is unknown to me, also whence I came.
If any shadow, as I dimly dream,
25
A common lot in which the common life
Is woven out of twisted dusty strands,
Inextricably mixed in cross and care,
At least I am outside of it to-day,
I have awakened in another sphere.
I would not lose one of these daylight hours
Of liberty, and that keen secret sense,
Most infinite in all its endless chance,
And most exhaustless in its earliest spring,
Of the unknown delight the day must bring.
Therefore, arising with the rising sun,
I pass alone into the open air,
The clear air with the low light all around;
No smoke obscures the pale and shining sky,
Though this is a great city, and no stir
Of wheels or passengers is yet abroad
On the wide empty pavements swept and smooth.
Of liberty, and that keen secret sense,
Most infinite in all its endless chance,
And most exhaustless in its earliest spring,
Of the unknown delight the day must bring.
Therefore, arising with the rising sun,
I pass alone into the open air,
The clear air with the low light all around;
No smoke obscures the pale and shining sky,
Though this is a great city, and no stir
Of wheels or passengers is yet abroad
On the wide empty pavements swept and smooth.
A spacious city, with a forest growth
Of land and water, for a hundred spires
Tower over all, and the broad waterways
Glide through its midst, and ancient houses grey,
With high red roofs, are crowded to their edge,
And bridges cross beyond, and far away
Are stately openings, like a glimpse confused
Of fretted piles behind a thousand masts,
That line the port; but close at hand the quays
On which I walk are solitary still,
And all the brigs and barges seem to sleep.
Yet here and there some early wayfarer
Is passing, like myself, but distant still.
How lucent is the morning! It would seem
As if a great rain yesterday had washed
All things beneath the sky, both underfoot
And overhead:—in deep transparence blue
The shadows lie all down the gabled streets
As if in mountain valleys, and the light
Catches the gilded weathercocks like peaks.
But here the central space and waterside
Is rolled and flooded by the mounting sun,
And straight into the sunshine I walk on.
While momently the sunshine grows and spreads,
And from the shadows some fresh shapes stand clear;
And chimes of bells begin to float above,
And mingle with the slight awakening sounds
Below:—and now, while still the morning air
Breathes its first freshness—what shall be the gift
The hour shall bring me? what the springing flower
To meet the joyous springing of my blood?
What is the quickening spirit on the wind
That quickens as with wings my unbound feet?
Unguided and unbidden, what compels
My aimless steps to follow to their goal?
What fortune of the future unforetold,
Moments of pearls strung on a golden thread,
Lies hidden in this daylong labyrinth?
Within what folding of these walled ways
Waits the foreshadowed reading of the tale?
Which is the way to turn? and what shall be
The new delight of the new scene disclosed?
What figure even now is on its way,
Through glittering haze of sunlight undiscerned,
Till face to face we meet, and I shall know
Why forward still I fare, and what is fate?
Of land and water, for a hundred spires
Tower over all, and the broad waterways
Glide through its midst, and ancient houses grey,
With high red roofs, are crowded to their edge,
And bridges cross beyond, and far away
26
Of fretted piles behind a thousand masts,
That line the port; but close at hand the quays
On which I walk are solitary still,
And all the brigs and barges seem to sleep.
Yet here and there some early wayfarer
Is passing, like myself, but distant still.
How lucent is the morning! It would seem
As if a great rain yesterday had washed
All things beneath the sky, both underfoot
And overhead:—in deep transparence blue
The shadows lie all down the gabled streets
As if in mountain valleys, and the light
Catches the gilded weathercocks like peaks.
But here the central space and waterside
Is rolled and flooded by the mounting sun,
And straight into the sunshine I walk on.
While momently the sunshine grows and spreads,
And from the shadows some fresh shapes stand clear;
And chimes of bells begin to float above,
And mingle with the slight awakening sounds
Below:—and now, while still the morning air
Breathes its first freshness—what shall be the gift
The hour shall bring me? what the springing flower
To meet the joyous springing of my blood?
What is the quickening spirit on the wind
27
Unguided and unbidden, what compels
My aimless steps to follow to their goal?
What fortune of the future unforetold,
Moments of pearls strung on a golden thread,
Lies hidden in this daylong labyrinth?
Within what folding of these walled ways
Waits the foreshadowed reading of the tale?
Which is the way to turn? and what shall be
The new delight of the new scene disclosed?
What figure even now is on its way,
Through glittering haze of sunlight undiscerned,
Till face to face we meet, and I shall know
Why forward still I fare, and what is fate?
I pass adown a shadowed garden walk
That bends downhill; a thicket either hand
O'erarches in a high and ancient growth
Of dark and shining foliage still as sleep,
And all the path is overgrown with moss.
The sunbeams in their flickering green and gold
Still hold the morning light, as it might seem,
Three hours to noon. The wood-gloom soft and damp
Is heavy with the scented laurel-bloom,
Now turning faint with languishment of joy,
Having kept wakeful all the warm night through;
And on th' expectant air there hangs a dream
As if from hidden beds of hyacinths,
Down in the dell below among the leaves.
There is a swooning sweetness in the hour,
All overcharged with its own deep perfume,
And dim with rapture of the sunbeams stolen
Into the haunted heart of the smooth shade,
Which calls perforce upon the place, the time
To answer to its yearning self-delight,
And to let loose the soul invisible.
For surely, as I pass, the conscious air
Can hold no more its secret, but must speak,
Already overladen with its sighs
Of fragrance, and the balm of the musk-rose;
And at the next turn of the golden day
The fate that trembles unrevealed around
Must step forth in some semblance palpable,
And must make one the heart of all things here,
Which now are throbbing to the unknown joy.
There cannot be but close, unutterable,
The coming of the crowning of the year.
That bends downhill; a thicket either hand
O'erarches in a high and ancient growth
Of dark and shining foliage still as sleep,
And all the path is overgrown with moss.
The sunbeams in their flickering green and gold
Still hold the morning light, as it might seem,
Three hours to noon. The wood-gloom soft and damp
Is heavy with the scented laurel-bloom,
28
Having kept wakeful all the warm night through;
And on th' expectant air there hangs a dream
As if from hidden beds of hyacinths,
Down in the dell below among the leaves.
There is a swooning sweetness in the hour,
All overcharged with its own deep perfume,
And dim with rapture of the sunbeams stolen
Into the haunted heart of the smooth shade,
Which calls perforce upon the place, the time
To answer to its yearning self-delight,
And to let loose the soul invisible.
For surely, as I pass, the conscious air
Can hold no more its secret, but must speak,
Already overladen with its sighs
Of fragrance, and the balm of the musk-rose;
And at the next turn of the golden day
The fate that trembles unrevealed around
Must step forth in some semblance palpable,
And must make one the heart of all things here,
Which now are throbbing to the unknown joy.
There cannot be but close, unutterable,
The coming of the crowning of the year.
And at my feet a flutter—and behold!
I tread among a softly-stirring crowd
Of slow and half-awakened butterflies,
As if the moist and tender heat of earth
Had breathed them forth new-born to the new day.
All down the path is suddenly alive
With grey and glistering films that break to life,
Their wet, furled wings unclosing momently,
About to spread into a golden cloud.
Folded in dew and moss and speechless sleep
Waiting;—and now th' enchanted hour has come
That sets them free—a mist of starry shapes
They rise, to wander down the noonward way.
I tread among a softly-stirring crowd
29
As if the moist and tender heat of earth
Had breathed them forth new-born to the new day.
All down the path is suddenly alive
With grey and glistering films that break to life,
Their wet, furled wings unclosing momently,
About to spread into a golden cloud.
Folded in dew and moss and speechless sleep
Waiting;—and now th' enchanted hour has come
That sets them free—a mist of starry shapes
They rise, to wander down the noonward way.
| A Book of Dreams | |