Foliage: Various Poems

DREAM TRAGEDIES

     Thou art not always kind, O sleep:
     What awful secrets them dost keep
     In store, and ofttimes make us know;
     What hero has not fallen low
     In sleep before a monster grim,
     And whined for mercy unto him;
     Knights, constables, and men-at-arms
     Have quailed and whined in sleep's alarms.
     Thou wert not kind last night to make
     Me like a very coward shake—
     Shake like a thin red-currant bush
     Robbed of its fruit by a strong thrush.
     I felt this earth did move; more slow,
     And slower yet began to go;
     And not a bird was heard to sing,
     Men and great beasts were shivering;
     All living things knew well that when
     This earth stood still, destruction then
     Would follow with a mighty crash.
     'Twas then I broke that awful hush:
     E'en as a mother, who does come
     Running in haste back to her home,
     And looks at once, and lo, the child
     She left asleep is gone; and wild

     With a mad cry that dream, and wake.