Classic Poem

A DREAM — mysterious word — a dream!
What joys and sorrows are enshrined
In those still hours we fondly deem
A playtime for the truant mind:

It is a happy thing to dream,
When rosy thoughts and visions bright
Pour on the soul a golden stream
Of rich luxurious delight:

It is a weary thing to dream,
When from the hot and aching brain,
As from a boiling cauldron, steam
The myriad forms in fancy's train.

It is a curious thing to dream,
When shapes grotesque of all quaint things
Like laughing water-witches seem
To sport in reason's turbid springs:

It is a glorious thing to dream,
When full of wings and full of eyes,
Borne on the whirlwind or sun-beam,
We race along the startled skies:

It is a wondrous thing to dream
Of tumbling with a fearful shock
From some tall cliff where eagles scream,
— To light upon a feather rock:

It is a terrible thing to dream
Of strangled throats and heart-blood spilt,
And ghosts that in the darkness gleam,
And horrid eyes of midnight guilt.

I love a dream, I dread a dream,
Sometimes all bright, and full of gladness,
But other times my brain will teem
With sights that urge the mind to madness.