The Dream

This was my dream:     It seemed the afternoon     Of some deep tropic day; and yet the moon     Stood round and bright with golden alchemy     High in a heaven bluer than the sea.     Long lawny lengths of perishable cloud     Hung in a west o'er rolling forests bowed;     Clouds raining colours, gold and violet,     That, opening, seemed from mystic worlds to let     Hints down of Parian beauty and lost charms     Of dim immortals, young, with floating forms.     And all about me fruited orchards grew,     Pear, quince and peach, and plums of dusty blue;     Rose-apricots and apples streaked with fire,     Kissed into ripeness by the sun's desire     And big with juice. And on far, fading hills,     Down which it seemed a hundred torrent rills     Flashed rushing silver, vines and vines and vines     Of purple vintage swollen with cool wines;     Pale pleasant wines and fragrant as late June,     Their delicate tang drawn from the wine-white moon     And from the clouds o'er this sweet world there dripped     An odorous music, strangely feverish-lipped,     That swung and swooned and panted in mad sighs;     Investing at each throb the air with eyes,     And forms of sensuous spirits, limpid white,     Clad on with raiment as of starry night;     Fair, faint embodiments of melody,     From out whose hearts of crystal one could see     The music stream like light through delicate hands     Hollowing a lamp. And as on sounding sands     The ocean murmur haunts the rosy shells,     Within whose convolutions beauty dwells,     My soul became a vibrant harp of love,     Re-echoing all the harmony above.