Irene's Dream
Danced ever in the air—led up his feet
To a small gate, the long grass round him stained
With the blue shade of dewy hyacinths.
Next came the joyous bark of his lost dog,
Then a low murmur of sweet questioning sound;
And into the green arch Irene stept.
The creature fawning on her, her pure face
A luminous lily bent with asking looks,
And gentle hands parrying each rough caress.[1]
"She is not mad" within himself he said,
As she raised up her head, rayed lightly round
By the faint halo of her pale gold hair,
And turned on him her earnest and strange eyes,
Whose half-wild light seemed caught by comradeship
With Nature's wild things. "No, she is not mad—
She is inspired."
Long after could he not
Have uttered half his thoughts of what she was
In thrice the words—But suddenly a thought
To a small gate, the long grass round him stained
With the blue shade of dewy hyacinths.
Next came the joyous bark of his lost dog,
Then a low murmur of sweet questioning sound;
And into the green arch Irene stept.
The creature fawning on her, her pure face
A luminous lily bent with asking looks,
And gentle hands parrying each rough caress.[1]
"She is not mad" within himself he said,
As she raised up her head, rayed lightly round
By the faint halo of her pale gold hair,
And turned on him her earnest and strange eyes,
Whose half-wild light seemed caught by comradeship
With Nature's wild things. "No, she is not mad—
She is inspired."
Long after could he not
Have uttered half his thoughts of what she was
In thrice the words—But suddenly a thought
- ↑ In another version follow the lines—And there he saw throned on a rustic chair,
With lilac-fretted robes, a sorceress-queen,
For so she seemed, who stretched her regal hand
Toward the twos and threes of twittering things
Who perched and fluttered off, and perched again,
Or for a moment crowned her pale bright hair,
And at her feet his little truant lay.
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