I know not how it is—it seems
Fantastic and surprising
That after all these dreams and dreams,
Here in the sun’s first level beams,
The sun is still just rising!
When first he showed his sovereign face,
And bade the night-folk scuttle
Back to their holes, I took my place
Here on the hill, and God His grace
Sent slumber soft and subtle.
Among the poppies red and white,
I’ve lain and drowsed, for all it
Appears a sluggardly delight.
I must have had a wakeful night,
Though, faith, I don’t recall it.
And, O I’ve dreamed so many things!
One hardly can unravel
The tangled web of visionings
That slumber-of-the-morning brings:
Play, study, work and travel;
The love of women (mostly those
Were fairest that were newest);
Hard knocks from friends and other foes:
Compacts with men (my memory shows
The deadest are the truest);
War—what a hero I became
By merely dreaming battle!
Athwart the field of letters, Fame
Blared through the brass my weary name
With an ominous death-rattle.
Such an eternity of thought
Within a minute’s fraction!
Such phantoms out of nothing wrought,
And fading suddenly to naught
As I awake to action!
They scamper each into its hole,
These dreams of my begetting.
They’ve had their moment; take, my soul,
Thy day of life. … Gods! this is droll—
That thieving sun is setting!