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Rudyard Kipling

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The Dream Book

Through the glade there wound a quiet brook Where I designed to sit and read a book There sung to sleep by the morning sun lost the book that I had brought, and dreamt one As the breeze would stir to turn the page I walked strange forests from another age Like a ghost that travels on the air I passed through a stranger’s dream, and woke there In that dream world of gray and shadow The stranger’s dream was dull and hollow Plodding one step on and then the next Nothing waiting at the end, only rest There I forgot it was just a dream Forgot that I lay sleeping by the stream Became the stranger I didn’t know And thought that I was living, even so Somewhere I slept with eyes wide open As I walked a lightless world and ashen Where in a languid pool I thought I’d scry To ask a single question, who am I? ...

Dreaming's End

Here where darkness fills my slumber Invading dreams with dreams A world of shades and soundless shapes Never resting teems No morn will come nor dreaming end Lest dreams within my dreams Where moonlight filters through the brume And no starlight gleams Warmth nor comfort provide that light To dreams as winter cold Or windswept ground and barren stone Where none is condoled Here where laughter turns to toil And joy becomes a chore Where one may dream of ending dreams Trapped beneath the hoar When weary, tired, comfort calls Obligation smiles keep So laughter's effort will not fail Children that would weep In dreams I haunt these empty halls Yet void of memories Where fire simply turned to frost Quenched by Erinyes Those furies drawn so long ago Their vengeance absolute They dreams enough for all the world Ended at the root...

The World is Old

I think of you in times like this When the sun can’t quite burn away the mist And the leaves lie wet upon the mold For a breath the world feels not so old The trees stand out in stark relief Dimly arrayed against my unbelief That the sun’s already above the hill The fog is burning beneath its will The only sound among the trees The faint drips of dew drops upon dead leaves The damp air rich with the scent of loam A moment’s peace, a glimpse of home I think of you in times like this And then a wind starts stirring in the mist The leaves dry out and the wind grows cold The moment's gone and the world is old -BA Lawson

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Rudyard Kipling

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