Idreamed that, as I wandered by the way,
I met my past and could not recognize
a single word I heard this phantom say,
and wondered was he wearing a disguise,
an actor, maybe, in a masque or play,
with gaze as glazed as in a dead men’s eyes?
I hastened from the spot from which he’d come,
and now the thought of him leaves me so numb
that only if you understand what I
have dreamt may I be able to return
to where I was before I passed him by,
attempting, by evading him, to spurn
the past I could not recognize. I’ll try
to see him as the famous Grecian urn,
and, foster-child of silence and slow time,
recover reason sweetly with a rhyme.
I only dream to write as such. This is poetry my friend! Fantastic imagery..beautiful, just lovely. Sherry
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Shelley and Keats - two of my very favorites! This is just a wonderful perspective. We go through life with blinders on until some Divine spark sets us free from our self-imposed prisons. And then we write from the heart. Linda