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. |