He came at last to live in revery.

But little thought is there in revery,

But little thought, for most is useless dream;

And whoso dreams may never learn to act.

The dreamer and the thinker are not kin.

Sweet revery is like a little boat

That idly drifts along a listless stream—

A painted boat, afloat without an oar.

And nature brought strange meanings to the slave;

He loved the breeze, and when he heard it pass

The agitated pines, he fancied it

The silken court-dress of the lady Wind,

Bustling among the foliage, as she went

To waltz the whirlwind on the distant sea.

The negro preacher with the text had said

That when men died, the soul lived on and on;

If so, of what material was the soul?

The eye could not behold it; why not then

[Pg 33]

The viewless air be filled with living souls?

 Prev. P 40/151 next