A Dream of Inspiration
To loll back, in a misty hammock, swung
From tip to tip of a slim crescent moon
That gems some royal-purple night of June —
To dream of songs that never have been sung
Since the first stars were stilled and God was young
And Heaven as lonesome as a lonesome tune:
To lie thus, lost to earth, with lids aswoon;
By curious, cool winds back and forward flung,
With fluttering hair, blurred eyes, and utter ease
Adrift like lazy blood through every vein;
And then, — the pulse of unvoiced melodies
Timing the raptured sense to some refrain
That knows nor words, nor rhymes, nor euphonies,
Save Fancy's hinted chime of unknown seas.
From tip to tip of a slim crescent moon
That gems some royal-purple night of June —
To dream of songs that never have been sung
Since the first stars were stilled and God was young
And Heaven as lonesome as a lonesome tune:
To lie thus, lost to earth, with lids aswoon;
By curious, cool winds back and forward flung,
With fluttering hair, blurred eyes, and utter ease
Adrift like lazy blood through every vein;
And then, — the pulse of unvoiced melodies
Timing the raptured sense to some refrain
That knows nor words, nor rhymes, nor euphonies,
Save Fancy's hinted chime of unknown seas.
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