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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE LITTLE ROOM OF DREAMS by ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON

First Line: NEXT TO THE SHELVING ROOF IT STOOD
Last Line: A LITTLE ROOM OF DREAMS.
I

NEXT to the shelving roof it stood --
My boyhood's cozy bed;
So near I felt the serried storm
Go charging o'er my head.
'T is fifty summers, yet I hear
The branch against the pane,
The midnight owl, the thunder crash,
The rhythm of the rain.

The golden apples long desired
Fell thumping from the trees,
Till Dream transformed them to the fruit
Of fair Hesperides.
The owl within his chimney porch
Became Minerva's own,
The lightning was the bolt of Jove,
Each tree a dryad's groan.

From there the flames of Troy were seen,
There Salamis was won;
Now Hannibal would cross the Alps,
And now Napoleon.
On Valley Forge's scene of prayer
My winter window gave;
Red Jacket there was eloquent,
And Osceola, brave.

Who could divine that from my sill
Fought wounded Ivanhoe? --
That there I saw Sir Galahad
Gleam in the moon, below?
Who knew that I was veteran
Of Bayard's noble strife? --
That there for many a hapless maid
I offered up my life?

There, too, I knew the midnight trance
Of not unwholesome grief,
(Since tears for others' sorrow shed
Bring to our own, relief):
I felt the lash on Uncle Tom,
And mourned Don Quixote's fall;
With David wept for Absalom,
With Dombey, Little Paul.

More oft a father's bedtime lore
So filled with joy the night,
I woke at dawn from rosy dreams
Expectant of delight.
For I had roamed the enchanted wood
With Puck or Rosalind,
Or shared with dainty Ariel
The visions of the wind.

II

Another little bed I know --
With dreams I never knew --
That holds a maid as brave and fair
As she Carpaccio drew.
Her fragrant pillow oft I seek
To find its magic power,
As one recalls a day of youth
By the perfume of a flower.

The beasts that did my sleep affright
Are from her fancy hid.
She finds the jungle full of friends,
As little Mowgli did.
For her the AEsop of our day
Summons his crafty clan.
The Blue-Bird is her happy goal,
Her hero, Peter Pan.

What visions of a spirit world
About her slumber float,
Pure as the Swan whose Silver Knight
Glides in a silver boat!
There, too, -- most blessed of the dreams
That have the world beguiled, --
An Angel with a lily kneels
To greet the Holy Child.

Far be the time when care and toil
Shall wrest these joys away,
Whereby this darling of my blood
Makes yesterday to-day.
For ah -- so near the things that be
Are to the things that seem --
Soon I to her, as Youth to me,
Shall be a thing of dream.

III

O Thou, the Father of us all,
Whose many mansions wait,
To whose dear welcome each must come
A child, at Heaven's gate:
In that fair house not made with hands
Whatever splendor beams,
Out of Thy bounty keep for me
A little room of dreams.



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