HAVING slept so long, men do not wish to wake, Nor stir, nor understand, Nor brush the darkness from their brows and take The grandeur close at hand. Are songs and cries of weariness that mark Labour and revelry But lonely waters, crying in the dark, That flow down to the sea? Courageous ires, the fruits of ireful claims, Are folded in a keep Of dreams and smoke that once were acts and flames -- For men, poisoned with words and bitter names, Have cried themselves to sleep. And in that sleep are dreams of frightful hue; Drag slow across the brain Marauding talons of the Golden Few, The coroneted pirates saunter through; The load of dreaming breaks the heart in twain, The sleeper wakes -- to find those dreams are true -- And falls asleep again! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IRELAND; WRITTEN FOR THE ART AUTOGRAPH DURING IRISH FAMINE by SIDNEY LANIER ON A YOUNG LADY'S SIXTH ANNIVERSARY by KATHERINE MANSFIELD BONNYBELL: THE BUTTERFLY by EDGAR LEE MASTERS WITH BEST WISHES by DOROTHY PARKER OLD TRAILS by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON |