Page:Poems Forrest.djvu/16

While thro' the spices come the fine
Cool whiffs of dainty jessamine.
At either end, a tiny lamp
 To steady it and give us light,
The lamps are of the prophet's green
 Of floating oil in malachite;
And where they touch the carpet's fold,
Their twisted handles are of gold.

Thus a dream barge our mat becomes!
 It glides across the nursery floor,
It lifts itself beside the bed,
 And, tho' our mother locked the door,
The window offers it no bars,
Wide open to the watching stars.
How small the town looks from above!
 There is the schoolhouse, there our street,
We see the station signal glow,
 The big policeman on his beat;
And now there comes a white cloud's breast,
A spire pricks thro'. We lose the rest.

Green fields beyond the city's rim,
 The dark slopes of the forest land;
And there we find the foam-ringed beach,
 The pale arms of the clasping sand;
The dwarf-backed waves that ride the blue,
And thus the fairy tales come true.
Upon a narrow spit of shore
 The centuries' memorials pile;
Here are the dun sails of a boat
 Blown northward down the yellow Nile.
We see a black-robed woman kneel
Beside a wailing waterwheel.