Dreams poems
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The Bestiary: or Orpheuss Procession
© Guillaume Apollinaire
Admire the vital power
And nobility of line:
Its the voice that the light made us understand here
That Hermes Trismegistus writes of in Pimander.
Song Of The Women To The Poet
© Rainer Maria Rilke
We're perfect for you bliss beyond your dreams
Just look: The blood and darkness in a beast
Evolved in us especially to be soul,
And screams for you, just as a soul should scream.
It yearns for service by the mystery priest
And strains for utter absence of control.
In Secret We Thirst
© Hermann Hesse
Dreams of beauty, youthful joy
like a breath in pure harmony
with the depth of your young surface
where sparkles the longing for the night
for blood and barbarity
Whispered Into Afternoon
© Georg Trakl
Sun of autumn, thin and shy
And fruit drops off the trees,
Blue silence fills the peace
Of a tardy afternoons sky.
Our Fathers Business:
© Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
O CHRIST-CHILD, Everlasting, Holy One,
Sufferer of all the sorrow of this world,
Redeemer of the sin of all this world,
Who by Thy death brought'st life into this world,--
O Christ, hear us!
The Voice in the Wild Oak
© Henry Kendall
Twelve years ago, when I could face
High heavens dome with different eyes
Snow
© Viggo Stuckenberg
It is a long way, a long way away in the land where all the Fairy Tales happen.
Out on a flat, snow covered, endless barren field squats a tumbledown hut, and in the hut's only room sits a bent old man breathing on the ice on the windowpane. He is staring out over the lonely snow-plain which is empty, cold and trackless, while and sterile all the way to the frost-blue clouds on the horizon. The old man's breath spreads like thin steam over the pane, and freezes. The frost creaks in the woodwork. The cold steals in from outside through cracks and chinks, and long icicles hang down from the eaves like a lattice in front of the window.
The Maiden's Sorrow
© William Cullen Bryant
Seven long years has the desert rain
Dropped on the clods that hide thy face;
Seven long years of sorrow and pain
I have thought of thy burial-place.
The Princess (part 3)
© Alfred Tennyson
Morn in the wake of the morning star
Came furrowing all the orient into gold.
We rose, and each by other drest with care
Descended to the court that lay three parts
In shadow, but the Muses' heads were touched
Above the darkness from their native East.
Songs of the Pixies
© Samuel Taylor Coleridge
I.
Whom the untaught Shepherds call
Pixies in their madrigal,
Fancy's children, here we dwell:
So that you will hear me
© Pablo Neruda
So that you will hear me
my words
sometimes grow thin
as the tracks of the gulls on the beaches.
"I Might-And I Might Not"
© Gamaliel Bradford
I might forget ambition and the hunger for success.
I might forget the passion to escape from nothingness.
I might forget the curious dreams of ecstasy that haunt
My fancy day and night. I might forget them. But I can't.
In Memoriam A. H. H.
© Alfred Tennyson
Thou seemest human and divine,
The highest, holiest manhood, thou.
Our wills are ours, we know not how;
Our wills are ours, to make them thine.
The True
© George MacDonald
Nay, nay, I envy not! And these are dreams,
Fancies and images of real heaven!
My longings, all my longing prayers are given
For that which is, and not for that which seems.
Draw me, O Lord, to thy true heaven above,
The Heaven of thy Thought, thy Rest, thy Love.
In The Bower
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
THE gusty and passionate March hath died;
And now in the golden April-tide
There sits in the shade of her jasmine bower
A maid more fair than an April flower.
A Bush Study, A La Watteau
© Arthur Patchett Martin
HE.
See the smoke-wreaths how they curl so lightly skyward
From the ivied cottage nestled in the trees:
Such a lovely spotI really feel that I would
Be happy there with children on my knees.
