Of blue palace aloft there, among misty indefinite dreams that range At the back of my life's horizon, where the dreamings of past lives crowd. Over the nearness of Norwood Hill, through the mellow veil Of the afternoon glows to me the old romance of David and Dora, With the old, sweet, soothing tears, and laughter that shakes the sail Of the ship of the soul over seas where dreamed dreams lure the unoceaned explorer. All the bygone, hushèd years Streaming back where the mist distils Into forgetfulness: soft-sailing waters where fears No longer shake, where the silk sail fills With an unfelt breeze that ebbs over the seas, where the storm Of living has passed, on and on Through the coloured iridescence that swims in the warm Wake of the tumult now spent and gone, Drifts my boat, wistfully lapsing after The mists of vanishing tears and the echo of laughter. 

  

  

       DREAMS OLD AND NASCENT     

       NASCENT     

 MY world is a painted fresco, where coloured shapes Of old, ineffectual lives linger blurred and warm; An endless tapestry the past has woven drapes The halls of my life, compelling my soul to conform. The surface of dreams is broken, The picture of the past is shaken and scattered. Fluent, active figures of men pass along the railway, and I am woken From the dreams that the distance flattered. Along the railway, active figures of men. They have a secret that stirs in their limbs as they move Out of the distance, nearer, commanding my dreamy world. Here in the subtle, rounded flesh Beats the active ecstasy. In the sudden lifting my eyes, it is clearer, The fascination of the quick, restless Creator moving through the mesh Of men, vibrating in ecstasy through the rounded flesh. Oh my boys, bending over your books, In you is trembling and fusing The creation of a new-patterned dream, dream of a generation:      And I watch to see the Creator, the power that patterns the dream. The old dreams are beautiful, beloved, soft-toned, and sure, But the dream-stuff is molten and moving mysteriously, Alluring my eyes; for I, am I not also dream-stuff, Am I not quickening, diffusing myself in the 

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