Poems (Whitney)/Siesta
SIESTA.
The old apple tree, Noblest on the hill— Takes me in its arms;There I lie a-dreaming, Dreaming at my will.
Birds and birdlings chirping, Think not I am there— While they trill wild notes,Think not of my dreaming In the scented air.
(Pray you do not mark! I pray you shut the doors On your fine brains—be sure'Tis only foolish dreaming, Unfit for wits like yours.)
Leaves glance light above— Boughs 'beneath me yield, Moving like long waves,Or golden rye a-dreaming On a July field.
My eyelids softly closing, Rarer sights I see; While all the outer music,All the gay leaves' dreaming Seem to follow me.
Feeling, scarcely thought, Old sweet grief and mirth, Like gold fruit are hanging,'Mid green boughs of my dreaming, Far above the earth.
Hope and bird-eyed fancy Midway chirp and sing; A rainbowed mist of music—A hum of cherubs' dreaming— The sound of blossoming,
Peace, a deeper peace— Joy, a fuller tide, Like swans on glassy wavesCome gliding down my dreaming, Gently side by side.
Say you, little wren, That our life of mirth Distances a king's,As the sky in azure dreaming Distances the earth?
Well said!—Noisy world, Custom's weedy throng, Here I give the go-by—For they match not in my dreaming With your wing and song.
Hearken, little bird! When God, round your heart Laid those mottled wings,He gave you heavenly dreaming For your life-long part.
I, my wild translator Of that upper bliss, On my doubtful pinions,Fanned through some strange dreaming, Ere a dream like this.