A Vision Of The Past

A VISION OF THE PAST.
Strange dreams of what I used to be
And what I dreamed I would be, swim
Before my vision, faint and dim
As misty distances we see
In pictured scenes of fairy lands;
And ever on, with empty hands,
And eyes that ever lie to me,
And smiles that no one understands,
I grope adown my destiny.

Some say I waver when I walk
Along the crowded thoroughfares.
And some leer in my eyes, and talk
Of dullness, when I see in theirs
Like fishes' eyes, alive or dead
But surfaces of vacancy
Blank disks that never seem to see,
But glint and glow and glare instead.

The ragged shawl I wear is wet
With driving, dripping rains, and yet
It seems a royal raiment, where,
Through twisted torrents of my hair,
I see rare gems that gleam and shine
Like jewels in a stream of wine;
The gaping shoes that clothe my feet
Are golden sandals, and the shrine
Where courtiers grovel and repeat
Vain prayers, and where in joy thereat,
A fair prince doffs his plumed hat,
And kneels, and names me all things sweet.

Sometimes the sun shines, and the lull
Of winter noon is like a tune
The stars might twinkle to the moon
If night were white and beautiful
For when the clangor of the town,
And strife of traffic softens down,
The wakeful hunger that I nurse,
In listening, forgets to curse,
Until-ah, joyl with drooping head
I drowse, and dream that I am dead
And buried safe beyond their eyes
Who either pity or despise.
-James Whitcomb Riley.