I have opened the window to warm my hands on the sill <br />Where the sunlight soaks in the stone: the afternoon <br />Is full of dreams, my love, the boys are all still <br />In a wistful dream of Lorna Doone. <br /> <br />The clink of the shunting engines is sharp and fine, <br />Like savage music striking far off, and there <br />On the great, uplifted blue palace, lights stir and shine <br />Where the glass is domed in the blue, soft air. <br /> <br />There lies the world, my darling, full of wonder and wistfulness and strange <br />Recognition and greetings of half-acquaint things, as I greet the cloud <br />Of blue palace aloft there, among misty indefinite dreams that range <br />At the back of my life’s horizon, where the dreamings of past lives crowd. <br /> <br />Over the nearness of Norwood Hill, through the mellow veil <br />Of the afternoon glows to me the old romance of David and Dora, <br />With the old, sweet, soothing tears, and laughter that shakes the sail <br />Of the ship of the soul over seas where dreamed dreams lure the unoceaned explorer. <br /> <br />All the bygone, hushèd years <br />Streaming back where the mist distils <br />Into forgetfulness: soft-sailing waters where fears <br />No longer shake, where the silk sail fills <br />With an unfelt breeze that ebbs over the seas, where the storm <br />Of living has passed, on and on <br />Through the coloured iridescence that swims in the warm <br />Wake of the tumult now spent and gone, <br />Drifts my boat, wistfully lapsing after <br />The mists of vanishing tears and the echo of laughter.<br /><br />David Herbert Lawrence<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dreams-old-2/
