Friday, April 8, 2011

A Dream Of Long Ago

So when I told you that you mustn't clean your room here because you might sprain your back, I was not jesting. That's where I've woefully been for the past 5 days - parallel to the floor on my back - not blogging or doing all the other things I love that involve me being at least at a 90° angle to the floor. It's no fun living such a life I tell you. No fun at all. But after sleeping for 20 out of 24 hours on two of the given five days, I can now claim ownership for another priceless find, commonly sold by the name of Flexinol, a skeletal and musle relaxant. It was so sweet, the slumber. I don't remember ever having slept so contently. Those halcyon days when awakening was a brief interlude from a dream world of my making are just a distant memory now. But  I can always return to it at just the click of the medicine strip and a gulp of water now. Such is the power! Potential side effects include drowsiness, dizziness, upset stomach, flushing, blurred vision, and fever, and I did experience 5 out of the 6, but in those lazy days, I was too happy to care!

And now that I am hale and hearty and my back having healed enough to allow me to sit at an incline, I can (Hallelujah!) use a computer again, though my laptop has become my tummytop and my desktop has become a dusttop. So all's well with the world. And just so you don't think I am a bad influence on you non drug addled people, and so that the government won't confiscate my secret weapons, I leave you with this. 

Poetry is the ultimate redeemer if you ask me. It can make a dumb person appear intellectual and deep just by quoting a few verses. It can warm your heart to an unfaithful partner in the matter of moments. Try it at any occasion and it will work. Now before I feel compelled to share any more of my secrets at making people like me and do to my liking, I bid adieu. 

A Dream Of Long Ago

Lying listless in the mosses
Underneath a tree that tosses
Flakes of sunshine, and embosses
Its green shadow with the snow--
Drowsy-eyed, I sink in slumber
Born of fancies without number--
Tangled fancies that encumber
Me with dreams of long ago.

Ripples of the river singing;
And the water-lilies swinging
Bells of Parian, and ringing
Peals of perfume faint and fine,
While old forms and fairy faces
Leap from out their hiding-places
In the past, with glad embraces
Fraught with kisses sweet as wine.

Willows dip their slender fingers
O'er the little fisher's stringers,
While he baits his hook and lingers
Till the shadows gather dim;
And afar off comes a calling
Like the sounds of water falling,
With the lazy echoes drawling
Messages of haste to him.

Little naked feet that tinkle
Through the stubble-fields, and twinkle
Down the winding road, and sprinkle
Little mists of dusty rain,
While in pasture-lands the cattle
Cease their grazing with a rattle
Of the bells whose clappers tattle
To their masters down the lane.

Trees that hold their tempting treasures
O'er the orchard's hedge embrasures,
Furnish their forbidden pleasures
As in Eden lands of old;
And the coming of the master
Indicates a like disaster
To the frightened heart that faster
Beats pulsations manifold.

Puckered lips whose pipings tingle
In staccato notes that mingle
Musically with the jingle-
Haunted winds that lightly fan
Mellow twilights, crimson-tinted
By the sun, and picture-printed
Like a book that sweetly hinted
Of the Nights Arabian.

Porticoes with columns plaited
And entwined with vines and freighted
With a bloom all radiated
With the light of moon and star;
Where some tender voice is winging
In sad flights of song, and singing
To the dancing fingers flinging
Dripping from the sweet guitar.

Would my dreams were never taken
From me: that with faith unshaken
I might sleep and never waken
On a weary world of woe!
Links of love would never sever
As I dreamed them, never, never!
I would glide along forever
Through the dreams of long ago

- James Whitcomb Riley

James Whitcomb Riley (October 7, 1849 – July 22, 1916)

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