THE "STUFF" OF DREAMS
WHAT is the "stuff" of which our dreams are made?
So sang the poet years ago.
Come they
Through opening of a book closed some long while—
A face glimpsed in a crowd—a smile
That lit the world one rose-hued mile?
Are these the forces that our slumbers know,
These tender glimpses of the past?
Yea, these;
And likewise salmon salad, shrimps and cheese!
So sang the poet years ago.
Come they
Through opening of a book closed some long while—
A face glimpsed in a crowd—a smile
That lit the world one rose-hued mile?
Are these the forces that our slumbers know,
These tender glimpses of the past?
Yea, these;
And likewise salmon salad, shrimps and cheese!
Whence are they born, those visions that enthrall
Our senses through the moon-white hours?
Drift they
On snatch of song that waked a memory strain
Of lips that kissed and sang again
And hands whose touch was rapture's pain?
Are these the mystic, unseen powers
That build our dreams from nothingness?
No doubt:
And likewise hot tamales and sauer kraut!
Our senses through the moon-white hours?
Drift they
On snatch of song that waked a memory strain
Of lips that kissed and sang again
And hands whose touch was rapture's pain?
Are these the mystic, unseen powers
That build our dreams from nothingness?
No doubt:
And likewise hot tamales and sauer kraut!
FORTY DAYS
SHE'S keeping her Lent quite strictly
With her suddenly staid little ways;
"Get thee behind me, Satan," she cries,
"And stay there—forty days!"
With her suddenly staid little ways;
"Get thee behind me, Satan," she cries,
"And stay there—forty days!"
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