The Dream

A poem by Lola Ridge

I have a dream
to fill the golden sheath
of a remembered day....
heavy and massed and blue
as the vapor of opium...
fired in sulphurous mist...
quiescent as a gray seal...
and the emerging sun
spurting up gold
over Sydney, smoke-pale, rising out of the bay....)
But the day is an up-turned cup
and its sun a junk of red iron
guttering in sluggish-green water -
where shall I pour my dream?

Reader Comments

Tell us what you think of 'The Dream' by Lola Ridge

comments powered by Disqus

Home | Search | About this website | Contact | Privacy Policy