Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE OUTCAST'S DREAM, by OLIVE BELL First Line: From morn till noon the golden glow Last Line: Some old home song or old love strain? Subject(s): Dreams; Pennsylvania; Nightmares | ||||||||
FROM morn till noon the golden glow Of bright September sunlight falls On dewy glades, where fall flowers hide Behind the dull, dark lichen walls. From noon till night the slanting rays Creep through the tangled winter vine, Where berries fringe the bending sprays, Like crimson drops of rare old wine. From morn till noon, from noon till night, O'erspreads the earth with jewelled robes, And fire-flies light the purplish dusk With countless golden glowing globes; A woman stalks through dust and heat, Until the fleece-like mists of night Enfold her thin and ill-clad form In trailing robes of bridal white. Her feet are bruised with jagged stones, -- Her tender feet that years ago Her mother's hands had fondly wrapped In infant robes of downy snow; Her pallid brow, that mother's lips Had kissed with mother's kisses pure, Is racked with pain that only they Who homeless roam the world endure. The clear, rich notes of wild birds break The slumberous calm like Sabbath bells, And from the brakes the thrush's song In sad, pathetic sweetness swells. The cool night-air is fragrant with The scents that rise from dewy flowers, As by the new moon's waning light She counts the twilight's fleeting hours. Her wild, sad eyes with wistful glare Count all the landmarks, one by one, Until she stands beyond the ridge Where blossoms catch the morning sun; And where the plover builds her nest In meadow grasses lush and long, And where in girlhood's happy years She raked the hay, with mirthful song. The old white stone beside the spring Is there, as white and smooth as when She filled her pail and mocked the caw Of blackbirds in the reedy glen. And when the gates of morn unfold, She knows the sunbeams drifting down Will steal through casements quaint and old, And snow-white locks with glory crown. She wanders on to where the spring Is lost in countless silvery rills, Then drops asleep, her silvery head On pillows fringed with daffodils; While in her dream her mother comes And strokes her brow with soothing palms That wash away the marks of shame, And fill her soul with restful calms. She feels warm, quivering kisses on her face (The dews that heaven kindly sends), And hears again the dear, brave voice That gently censures or commends. The vesper hymns they sang at eve, The Sabbath chants of humble praise, Float through her dreams, sweet memories from The deathless bliss of childhood's days. Ah! once again she's young and pure; Ah! once again her sinless brow Is bound with roses rich and red, Whose hearts with crimson beauty glow; She hears again the subtle voice That taught her love's most bitter pain. On cheek and lips and wrinkled brow His kisses fall like summer rain. She cries aloud, her yearning hands Outstretched to meet each fond caress, Then sinks in shame to hide her face In dripping clumps of watercress. For what has life for such as her But tortured thought, undying pain; And what are dreams but stray chords from Some old home song or old love strain? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...VARIATIONS: 14 by CONRAD AIKEN VARIATIONS: 18 by CONRAD AIKEN LIVE IT THROUGH by DAVID IGNATOW A DREAM OF GAMES by JOSEPHINE JACOBSEN THE DREAM OF WAKING by RANDALL JARRELL APOLOGY FOR BAD DREAMS by ROBINSON JEFFERS |
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