Classic Poem

And sometimes I have little dreams,
Faint and fair and far away;
With them I play.
O dare I tell
Of the ones I love well?
I love most the unreal,
The never-to-be.
They cry to me,
“Little sister, can you not feel
How it is with us—
Wandering, squandering thus
All our sweet beauty,
And, never, never to be?”

O yes, I best can feel
You, the unreal,
For you are—me!
Me, and all that I may not be.
Strong I am and straight and fair,
Strong and long and gold my hair,
(This doth but seem,
It is my dream).
And I dance
(I who may not turn
So for motion yearn);
I advance
And slowly whirl till all
The things on round earth's ball
Slowly whirl with me.
And I am beautiful and free,
And the world is my garden,
For my growth and for all men.

Little poignant joy-dreams come—
(Never to be,
Never to be);
Some have lips of love and some
Laughing faces, tiny hands—
Such sweet things bloom in dream-lands.
Never to be,
Never to be,
But who shall take from me
Dream-dance and dream-bliss,
Dream-clasp and dream-kiss!