Dreams too pure
No children crave their toys with hearts so keen,
As poets, crowned in regal grace, aspire—
Ascending like a starry stair serene,
While maidens, drawn from fountain’s choral choir,
Too soft to keep, they bear crowns—astral fire,
Diadems of night and laurel’s green attire.
And saffron folds, loose, golden, warm, and bright—
The sky—soft blue with summer’s tender light—
Breath music through the air’s enchanted calm;
Sweet instruments awake the soul from sleep.
The lyre, most dear, whose strings could still disarm
All sorrow, make the listening spirit weep—
The mask and stage shoe lay in comic grace,
While lyric scrolls and pastoral versus take flight
From scattered pages, each a sacred place,
Till a voice rising—a mind of noble right.
So swiftly passing the moment, rich, serene—
Like morning light that crowns the mountain’s peak—
A whisper thrilling the hall, a joy unseen,
A promise of delight to all who seek.
WoPoLi 
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