Classic Poem

Floryan sits in the black chintz chair,
An Indian curtain behind his head
Blue and brown and white and red.
Floryan sits quite still—quite still.
There is a noise like a rising tide
Of wind and rain in the black outside.
But the firelight leaps on Floryan's wall
And the Indian curtain suddenly seems
To stir and shake with a thousand dreams.
The Indian flowers drink the fire
As though it were sun, and the Indian leaves
Patter and sway to an echo breeze.
On the great brown boughs of the Indian tree
Little birds sing and preen their wings.
They flash through the sun like jewel rings.
And the great tree grows and moves and spreads
Through the silent room, and the rising tide
Of wind and rain on the black outside
Fades—and Floryan suddenly stirs
And lifts his eyes and weeps to see
The dreaming flowers of the Indian tree.