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Marsh Dreams

The bog god sleeps a while and dreams;

A drownéd king whose eyes are blind;

He sighs, and pulls his blanket up the streams.

Aquatic creatures are his slumb'ring mind,

Reeds his beard, the mere his empty eyes,

And in his bowels all the waters wind.

And should this god whose dreams are lilies,

and the tiny fish that grow to paint the parent sea,

Wake, and stretch his mossy limbs,

The tossing willow and the cypress tree,

Up the river valleys swift will run,

And all the waters of the ocean come to him.

Don't rouse the ancient spirit of the marsh and mere,

For our fields and houses would forget the sun,

And pitcher plants and crayfish settle here.

Foundation for a citadel of orchids and of vine,

The factories and car lots would become,

Parks and fields would riot and would drown,

To dream about lost days of man,

And woman, and forgotten life of towns,

Where now the bittern nests and dryads come.