Ina D. Coolbrith: Verses about Dream

I think I would not be
A stately tree,
Broad-boughed, with haughty crest that seeks the sky;
Too many sorrows lie
In years, too much of bitter for the sweet.
Frost-bite, and blast, and heat,
Blind drought, cool rains, must all grow wearisome,
Ere one could put away
Their leafy garb for aye,
And let death come.

Rather this wayside flower!
To live its happy hour
Of balmy air, of sunshine, and of dew.
A sinless face held upward to the blue,
A bird-song sung to it,
A butterfly to flit
On dazzling wings above it, hither, thither-
A sweet surprise of life-and then exhale
A little fragrant soul on the soft gale,
To float-ah, whither!

I gathered flowers the summer long;
I dozed the days on sunny leas,
And wove my fancies into song,
Or dreamed in aimless ease.

Or watched, from jutting cliffs, the dyes
Of changeful waters under me-
The lazy gulls that dip and rise,
White specs upon the sea;

And far away, where blue to blue
Was wed, the ships that came and went;
And thought O happy world! And drew
There from a full content.

My mates toiled in the ripening field,
Nor paused for rest in cool or heat;
The yellow grain made haste to yield
Its harvesting complete:

My mates toiled in their pleasant homes,
They plucked the fruit from laden boughs,
And sang-“For if the Master comes
And find no ready house! ”-

And far and strange their singing seemed,
And harsh the voices every one,
That woke the pleasant dream I dream’d
To thought of tasks undone.

Yet still I waited, lingered still,
Won by a cloud-a soaring lark;
Till, by-and-by, the land was chill,
And all the sky was dark.

And lo, the Master! -Through the night
My mates come forth to welcome Him:
Their labor done, their garments white,
While mine are stained and dim.

They bring to Him their golden sheaves;
To Him their finished toil belongs;
While I have but these withered leaves,
And these poor, foolish songs!

Francis D’ Assisi, gentlest Saint of Saint’s,
Within his garden where the roses grew
That knew no thorn, slept from a weariness
Of overtoil, lulled by the the minstrelsy
Of leaf and bird; and thereto, as he slept,
From out the jungle-side a leopard crept
And at his feet crouched in soft-purring guard:
For all things loved Saint Francis- giving love
To all things-with a heart clean of all ill.
Sleeping, he dreamed a strange and wondrous dream
Of strange and wondrous seas, strange, wondrous shores,
And length of strange and wondrous wanderings
That burdened not; light labor, footways light,
And even pain an acstasy, for borne
For love of the dear Lord’s, Saviour’s sake
And with him walked a Fellowship of Love,
Unsandaled, bare of brow, gray-garmented-
The humble garb he knew since the far day
He doffed his princely robbing for the vow
Of toil and serviture and poverty.
And in the spaces which his footsteps trod
One land there was of great loveliness,
With mountain-summits white with trackless snow-
The living temples builded unto God-
And mighty forest trees that sought the skies-
Such dazzling skies! Beloved of the sun!
And Oh, to the Gray Brotherhood hoe dear
The land, responding with what bloom-
Whose white walls rose to worship, and who gave
Their God into its savage untaught Race.
One space was there where a great crystal lay-
A jewel set within a rim of gold-
Whose waters leaped and sparkled, laughed and sang
To its great City of the Seven Hills-
And lo! the city bore Saint Francis’ name! . . .
The Saint awoke, and trembling, turned to prayer:
‘Ah! blessed Christ.’ He saught, ’what is my fault
That even in a dream such pride be mine?
I seek no honor save Thy will to serve.
If this Thy will, yet grant me this alone,
That unto Thee I may reconsecrate.’

And long years passed, and the great City grew
Of all the earth the queenliest and most fair;
Leading in knowledge grew:
Teaching all truth as Truth was given to Man;
Aye, beautiful upon the hills and free,
To God, to Christ, divinely consecrate!

What wizardry is this? What necromance?
These forest-aisles, these mountains grim and vast?
These shadowy forms and faces that advance
From out of the misty past?

The old familiar faces, how they crowd!
Like ghosts returning from the farther shore!
These Beings without Being, yet endowed
With life for evermore.

Each in my own life-weft has woven part,
Whether or grave or gay; unkempt or shorn;
This one, ‘The Luck’ they call him, stole my heart
The day that he was born.

With these I sat beside the camp-fire’s glow
And heard, through untaught lips, old Homer tell
The Tale of Troy, till with the falling snow
God’s last white silence fell.

I knew the cabin in the lone ravine
Where she, the Fallen, far from mart and men,
Watched by the stricken and, unknown, made clean
Her garment’s hem again.

And these, the Partners in world-storm and stress,
With faithful love, unknowing selfish aim;
The friendship pure that grew not cold nor less
Through good or evil fame.

These, too (I loved them!) , reckless, debonair,
That life and fortune staked upon a cast;
The soul itself held lightly as the air,
To win or lose at last.

I tracked the mountain trail with them; the sweet
Cool smell of pines I breathed beneath the stars;
The laugh, the song I heard; the rhythmic feet
To tinkle of guitars.

I knew the Mission’s fragrant garden-close,
Heavy with blooms the wind might scarcely stir,
Its little laughing maid-Castilian rose! -
And saucy speech of her.

I knew them all-but best of all I knew
(Who in himself had something of all these)
The Man, within whose teeming fancy grew
These wondrous histories.

I see him often, with the brown hair half
Tossed from the leaning brow, the soft yet keen
Gray eyes uplifted with a tear or laugh
From the pen-pictured scene.

And hear the voice that read to me his dear
World-children-and I listen till I seem
Back in the olden days; they are the near
And these are but a dream.

O Prince of Song and Story! Thee we claim,
The first and dearest, still our very own!
We will not yield the glory of thy name
Nor share thy laureled throne!

Altho beneath a gray and alien sky,
Across long leagues of land and leagues of wave,
We may not reach thy dust with tear and sigh,
Nor deck thy lonely grave.

* Written for the Bret Harte Memorial Jinks of the Bohemian Club,
San Francisco, California; on which occasion the Jinks Room was
Transformed into a mining camp in the Sierras, and the chief
characters in Bret Hart’s works were represented by the club
members.