Dreams in War Time

I

I wandered through a house of many rooms.

It grew darker and darker,

Until, at last, I could only find my way

By passing my fingers along the wall.

Suddenly my hand shot through an open window,

And the thorn of a rose I could not see

Pricked it so sharply

That I cried aloud.

      II

I dug a grave under an oak-tree.

With infinite care, I stamped my spade

Into the heavy grass.

The sod sucked it,

And I drew it out with effort,

Watching the steel run liquid in the moonlight

As it came clear.

I stooped, and dug, and never turned,

For behind me,

On the dried leaves,

My own face lay like a white pebble,

Waiting.

      III

I gambled with a silver money.

The dried seed-vessels of “honesty”

Were stacked in front of me.

Dry, white years slipping through my fingers

One by one.

One by one, gathered by the Croupier.

“Faites vos jeux, Messieurs.”

I staked on the red,

And the black won.

Dry years,

Dead years;

But I had a system,

I always staked on the red.

      IV

I painted the leaves of bushes red

And shouted: “Fire! Fire!”

But the neighbors only laughed.

“We cannot warm our hands at them,” they said.

Then they cut down my bushes,

And made a bonfire,

And danced about it.

But I covered my face and wept,

For ashes are not beautiful

Even in the dawn.

      V

I followed a procession of singing girls

Who danced to the glitter of tambourines.

Where the street turned at a lighted corner,

I caught the purple dress of one of the dancers,

But, as I grasped it, it tore,

And the purple dye ran from it

Like blood

Upon the ground.

      VI

I wished to post a letter,

But although I paid much,

Still the letter was overweight.

“What is in this package?” said the clerk,

“It is very heavy.”

“Yes,” I said,

“And yet it is only a dried fruit.”

      VII

I had made a kite,

On it I had pasted golden stars

And white torches,

And the tail was spotted scarlet like a tiger-lily,

And very long.

I flew my kite,

And my soul was contented

Watching it flash against the concave of the sky.

My friends pointed at the clouds;

They begged me to take in my kite.

But I was happy

Seeing the mirror shock of it

Against the black clouds.

Then the lightning came

And struck the kite.

It puffed—blazed—fell.

But still I walked on,

In the drowning rain,

Slowly winding up the string.