THE DREAM BARGE
I
Worn here and there by little feet, The mat upon the floor is string;And when you shake it, full of dust, By day an ordinary thing.But you should see it when at nightThe house is still and stars are bright.
At first it will begin to glow, As if a pixy lantern ledFrom some trap-door beneath the boards, Luring the children out of bed,As, underneath a northern sun,The tattered Piper might have done!And then it takes on many a hue, A golden thread in darkness spun,A scarlet from some brown bazaar, The crimsons of a desert sun,Seen from a swaying camel's back,When the hot sand-storm blurs the track.
It smells of amber, and of jars Of Orient essences and oils,As if some wide-winged jinn had swept A sultan's still-room for his spoils;
