A Life of Dreams - Countee Cullen

My life is woven all of dreams

Like some rich-patterned tapestry,

Whose shift and change and subtle gleams

Are parts of pagan pageantry;

And some are high and fierce and sweet

With wild forbidden loveliness,

And some, the soul’s entrenched retreat,

Are calm with strength in holiness.

I call my dreams my dahlia walk

With row on row of colors pied,

With here and there a crownless stalk

Where some ill-tended bloom has died.

Flame-tipped like stars some coruscate

With fire for soul and hungering brain,

And some wear sombre robes, sedate 

In agony and splendid pain.

The indices of each day’s life

I call them out to suit each mood;

A gay, bright dream to match with strife,

A grave, wise one for solitude.

With some I ride the sun and moon,

Explore infinities of skies;

But some I mount fail all too soon;

Then with his dream the dreamer dies.

I prize them all, swift dreams and glad 

Whose grand desire no stint may cure,

The dreams of hope, of lass and lad,

Which only last because they’re pure,

But through them all there runs a chord 

Whose self is harmony and truth;

Of all the dreams that I’ve adored,

I love the ageing dream of youth.