Dream Poem a la Swinburne.
(After a Supper of Pork Chops.)
Soft is the smell of it, sweet the sad sound of it,
Mournfully mingled on yon mountain’s top,
Grateful, and green, and caressing the ground of it,
Calm as a calyx, and deep as a drop.
Ah! the enlivenment, dark as the distance!
Ah! the allurements that lavish and lave!
Is there no sound but the sun’s sweet insistance,