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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=339848" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Doubtful Dreams</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Aye, snows are rife in December,<br>And sheaves are in August yet,<br>And you would have me remember,<br>And I would rather forget ;<br>In the bloom of the May-day weather,<br>In the blight of October chill,<br>We were dreamers of old together,—<br>As of old, are you dreaming still ?<br> <br>For nothing on earth is sadder<br>Than the dream that cheated the grasp,<br>The flower that turned to the adder,<br>The fruit that changed to the asp ;<br>When the day-spring in darkness closes,<br>As the sunset fades from the hills,<br>With the fragrance of perish'd roses,<br>With the music of parch'd-up rills.<br> <br>When the sands on the sea-shore nourish<br>Red clover and yellow corn ;<br>When figs on the thistle flourish,<br>And grapes grow thick on the thorn ;<br>When the dead branch, blighted and blasted,<br>Puts forth green leaves in the spring,<br>Then the dream that life has outlasted<br>Dead comfort to life may bring.<br> <br>I have changed the soil and the season,<br>But whether skies freeze or flame,<br>The soil they flame on or freeze on<br>Is changed in little save name ;<br>The loadstone points to the nor'ward,<br>The river runs to the sea ;<br>And you would have me look forward,<br>And backward I fain would flee.<br> <br>I remember the bright spring garlands,<br>The gold that spangled the green,<br>And the purple on fairy far lands,<br>And the white and the red bloom, seen<br>From the spot where we last lay dreaming<br>Together—yourself and I—<br>The soft grass beneath us gleaming,<br>Above us the great grave sky.<br> <br>And we spoke thus : 'Though we have trodden<br>Rough paths in our boyish years ;<br>And some with our sweat are sodden,<br>And some are salt with our tears ;<br>Though we stumble still, walking blindly,<br>Our paths shall be made all straight ;<br>We are weak, but the heavens are kindly,<br>The skies are compassionate.'<br> <br>Is the clime of the old and younger,<br>Where the young dreams longer are nursed ?<br>With the old insatiable hunger,<br>With the old unquenchable thirst,<br>Are you longing, as in the old years<br>We have longed so often in vain ;<br>Fellow-toilers still, fellow-soldiers,<br>Though the seas have sundered us twain ?<br> <br>But the young dreams surely have faded !<br>Young dreams !—old dreams of young days—<br>Shall the new dream vex us as they did ?<br>Or as things worth censure or praise ?<br>Real toil is ours, real trouble,<br>Dim dreams of pleasure and pride ;<br>Let the dreams disperse like a bubble,<br>So the toil like a dream subside.<br> <br>Vain toil! men better and braver<br>Rose early and rested late,<br>Whose burdens than ours were graver,<br>And sterner than ours their hate.<br>What fair reward had Achilles ?<br>What rest could Alcides win ?<br>Vain toil ! 'Consider the lilies,<br>They toil not, neither do spin.'<br> <br>Nor for mortal toiling nor spinning<br>Will the matters of mortals mend ;<br>As it was so in the beginning,<br>It shall be so in the end.<br>The web that the weavers weave ill<br>Shall not be woven aright<br>Till the good is brought forth from evil,<br>As day is brought forth from night.<br> <br>Vain dreams! for our fathers cherish'd<br>High hopes in the days that were ;<br>And these men wonder'd and perish'd,<br>Nor better than these we fare ;<br>And our due at least is their due :<br>They fought against odds and fell ;<br>'En avant, les enfants perdus !'<br>We fight against odds as well.<br> <br>The skies ! Will the great skies care for<br>Our footsteps, straighten our path,<br>Or strengthen our weakness ? Wherefore ?<br>We have rather incurr'd their wrath ;<br>When against the Captain of Hazor<br>The stars in their courses fought,<br>Did the sky shed merciful rays, or<br>With love was the sunshine fraught ?<br> <br>Can they favour man—can they wrong man—<br>The unapproachable skies ?<br>Though these gave strength to the strong man,<br>And wisdom gave to the wise ;<br>When strength is turn'd to derision,<br>And wisdom brought to dismay,<br>Shall we wake from a troubled vision,<br>Or rest from a toilsome day ?<br> <br>Nay ! I cannot tell. Peradventure<br>Our very toil is a dream,<br>And the works that we praise or censure,<br>It may be, they only seem.<br>If so, I would fain awaken,<br>Or sleep more soundly than so,<br>Or by dreamless sleep overtaken,<br>The dream I would fain forgo.<br> <br>For the great things of life are small things,<br>The longest life is a span,<br>And there is an end to all things,<br>A season to every man,<br>Whose glory is dust and ashes,<br>Whose spirit is but a spark,<br>That out from the darkness flashes,<br>And flickers out in the dark.<br> <br>We remember the pangs that wrung us<br>When some went down to the pit,<br>Who faded as leaves among us,<br>Who flitted as shadows flit ;<br>What visions under the stone lie ?<br>What dreams in the shroud sleep dwell,<br>For we saw the earth pit only,<br>And we heard only the knell.<br> <br>We know not whether they slumber<br>Who waken on earth no more,<br>As the stars of the heights in number,<br>As sands on the deep sea-shore.<br>Shall stiffness bind them, and starkness<br>Enthral them, by field and flood,<br>Till 'the sun shall be turn'd to darkness,<br>And the moon shall be turn'd to blood ?'<br> <br>We know not !—worse may enthral men—<br>'The wages of sin are death' ;<br>And so death pass'd upon all men,<br>For sin was born with man's breath.<br>Then the labourer spent with sinning,<br>His hire with his life shall spend ;<br>For it was so in the beginning,<br>And shall be so in the end.<br> <br>There is life in the blacken'd ember<br>While a spark is smouldering yet ;<br>In a dream e'en now I remember<br>That dream I had lief forget—<br>I had lief forget, I had e'en lief<br>That dream with this doubt should die—<br>'If we did these things in the green leaf,<br>What shall be done in the dry ?'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Adam+Lindsay+Gordon">Adam Lindsay Gordon</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=339848" data-title="Doubtful Dreams de Adam Lindsay Gordon" data-description="Aye, snows are rife in December,
And sheaves are in August yet,
And you would have me remember,
And I would rather forget ;
In the bloom of the May-day weather,
In the blight of October chill,
We were dreamers of old together,—
As of old, are yo..."></div>
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