Classic Poem

Golden mists o'er Cloudland wreathing
Arabesques of shining sheen,
Sunny airs of violets breathing,
Lure weird Fancy, Cloudland's queen.
Lo! she hastens, flower-encircled,
Dainty, pensive, winsome fay,
Her fair brow all rose-empurpled,
While around flutes pour soft lay.

There is she,—Imagination!
Gazing upward in her dreams;
Rapt, intent on meditation,
Sculpturesque, yet thrilled, she seems.
Planets lure her in their spaces,
Stars strew gold dust on her path;
She has looked them in their faces,
And a hint divine she hath.

Rare pellucid hues of dawning,
Iris tints of summer skies,
Streak fair Fancy's couch; glad Morning
Bids her ope her lovely eyes.
Wind-songs quaint Eolus showers
Round her home of golden mist;
Sweet she sings them in her bowers,
And the Silence harks, I wist.

All the pomp of constellations
Wakes Imagination's gaze;
World apart in meditations,
Sits she living wondrous days.
She can hear the chiming measures
Of the stars with stately tread,
The celestial strains she treasures,
Rev'rently she bows her head.

Tired heart! when life is dreary,
And the years drag slowly on,
Summon airy Fancy, weary
Is she never, hear her song!
Soul unresting, tossed with sorrow!
Just one strain of harmony
From Imagination borrow,
Calmest joy she'll yield to thee.