Dream of Ice
Oh, wondrous, solemn mystery of Dream!
Sublime induction of a formless thought—
How vivid is thy cloud-constructed theme!
Divine of fancy, and by mind unsought,
Marvel of color, nameless and untaught,
Appalling glimpses of a world supreme!
I saw in sleep, with thrills of proud delight,
Vistas of algid spheres, and such a view
As never yet of man had blurred the sight,
Which none can tell of, or conceive of few,—
In planets far, through billion leagues of blue,
A vision of an airless city, white.
Mammoth cathedrals, higher than the eye
Could reach; of architecture hybrid, weird,
Their slender steeples through a freezing sky,
With grand, stupendous gracefulness upreared.
Palaces, portals, monuments appeared,
And endless avenues rolled in and by.
Titanic domes on massive temples rose,
Like a young giant virgin's niveous breast,
Chilling, soul-thrilling in their stern repose,
As if defying gods, by gods unblest;
While pillars, columns, worked of plinth and crest,
Upheld the mass with firmest strength, rugose.
And all was ice and all was white; no air,
No earth, no flame; all frigid, rigid cold!
An icen labyrinth of grand despair.
The sad necropolis of a race now old,
Damned for anterior sinnings manifold,
By one chill glance of God's avenging stare!
The trees of solid ice had leaves of snow;
Huge, pendent icicles from heights unseen
Twisted in uncouth shapes, while to and fro
Swung skies of silver frost, steel-color, keen,
Superbly monotone of phantom gleen,
Veiling a pallid moon's blear, brumal glow!
Long lines of statues guarded every street,
With cloaks of rime, with trailing beards of hail,
Frigidly gazing, with blank eyes discreet,
From rough and icy socles, mute and pale,
Waiting to tell their agonizing tale,
Waiting some sympathizing face to greet.
And all was still: a silence kin to pain
And desolate as death, sad, vague, austere,
Save when the echo of some spirit-strain
Murmured half-frozen melodies of fear. …
The ghastly moon would pause and disappear
Through hueless heavens, and would come again.—
Oh, 'twas a grand and mighty dream of ice!
A poem of white snows: sublimest, grave,
Whose very dreariness would souls entice,—
Souls flusht and sick of terrene heats, who, brave
Would eagerly renounce our God, and crave
A tomb in this pale, peerless paradise!
And I had seen it all; my spirit paced
Those broad, bleak thoroughfares of gray and white.
No air had I to breathe; my lungs were braced
With belts of freezing vapor, fresh and light;
And, as I wandered on from site to site,
My thoughts of fire this mortal chill effaced.
For well do I recall my dream, and see
The strange, fantastic town of ice and rime;
I still discern each palace, porch, and tree
That reared its splendor in this boreal clime;
And I remember how, from time to time,
I strove to cool my maddening love for thee. …
Sublime induction of a formless thought—
How vivid is thy cloud-constructed theme!
Divine of fancy, and by mind unsought,
Marvel of color, nameless and untaught,
Appalling glimpses of a world supreme!
I saw in sleep, with thrills of proud delight,
Vistas of algid spheres, and such a view
As never yet of man had blurred the sight,
Which none can tell of, or conceive of few,—
In planets far, through billion leagues of blue,
A vision of an airless city, white.
Mammoth cathedrals, higher than the eye
Could reach; of architecture hybrid, weird,
Their slender steeples through a freezing sky,
With grand, stupendous gracefulness upreared.
Palaces, portals, monuments appeared,
And endless avenues rolled in and by.
Titanic domes on massive temples rose,
Like a young giant virgin's niveous breast,
Chilling, soul-thrilling in their stern repose,
As if defying gods, by gods unblest;
While pillars, columns, worked of plinth and crest,
Upheld the mass with firmest strength, rugose.
And all was ice and all was white; no air,
No earth, no flame; all frigid, rigid cold!
An icen labyrinth of grand despair.
The sad necropolis of a race now old,
Damned for anterior sinnings manifold,
By one chill glance of God's avenging stare!
The trees of solid ice had leaves of snow;
Huge, pendent icicles from heights unseen
Twisted in uncouth shapes, while to and fro
Swung skies of silver frost, steel-color, keen,
Superbly monotone of phantom gleen,
Veiling a pallid moon's blear, brumal glow!
Long lines of statues guarded every street,
With cloaks of rime, with trailing beards of hail,
Frigidly gazing, with blank eyes discreet,
From rough and icy socles, mute and pale,
Waiting to tell their agonizing tale,
Waiting some sympathizing face to greet.
And all was still: a silence kin to pain
And desolate as death, sad, vague, austere,
Save when the echo of some spirit-strain
Murmured half-frozen melodies of fear. …
The ghastly moon would pause and disappear
Through hueless heavens, and would come again.—
Oh, 'twas a grand and mighty dream of ice!
A poem of white snows: sublimest, grave,
Whose very dreariness would souls entice,—
Souls flusht and sick of terrene heats, who, brave
Would eagerly renounce our God, and crave
A tomb in this pale, peerless paradise!
And I had seen it all; my spirit paced
Those broad, bleak thoroughfares of gray and white.
No air had I to breathe; my lungs were braced
With belts of freezing vapor, fresh and light;
And, as I wandered on from site to site,
My thoughts of fire this mortal chill effaced.
For well do I recall my dream, and see
The strange, fantastic town of ice and rime;
I still discern each palace, porch, and tree
That reared its splendor in this boreal clime;
And I remember how, from time to time,
I strove to cool my maddening love for thee. …
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