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.
