# June Dreams, in January

Sidney Lanier composed this poem in Georgia in 1869. It is grouped among his “unrevised early poems.”
“So pulse, and pulse, thou rhythmic-hearted Noon  That liest, large-limbed, curved along the hills, In languid palpitation, half a-swoon  With ardors and sun-loves and subtle thrills;
“Throb, Beautiful! while the fervent hours exhale  As kisses faint-blown from thy finger-tips Up to the sun, that turn him passion-pale  And then as red as any virgin’s lips.
“O tender Darkness, when June-day hath ceased,  —Faint Odor from the day-flower’s crushing born, —Dim, visible Sigh out of the mournful East  That cannot see her lord again till morn:
“And many leaves, broad-palmed towards the sky  To catch the sacred raining of star-light: And pallid petals, fain, all fain to die,  Soul-stung by too keen passion of the night:
“And short-breath’d winds, under yon gracious moon  Doing mild errands for mild violets, Or carrying sighs from the red lips of June  What aimless way the odor-current sets:
“And stars, ringed glittering in whorls and bells,  Or bent along the sky in looped star-sprays, Or vine-wound, with bright grapes in panicles,  Or bramble-tangled in a sweetest maze,
“Or lying like young lilies in a lake  About the great white Lotus of the moon, Or blown and drifted, as if winds should shake  Star blossoms down from silver stems too soon,
“Or budding thick about full open stars,  Or clambering shyly up cloud-lattices, Or trampled pale in the red path of Mars,  Or trim-set in quaint gardener’s fantasies:
“And long June night-sounds crooned among the leaves,  And whispered confidence of dark and green, And murmurs in old moss about old eaves,  And tinklings floating over water-sheen!”
Then he that wrote laid down his pen and sighed; And straightway came old Scorn and Bitterness, Like Hunnish kings out of the barbarous land, And camped upon the transient Italy That he had dreamed to blossom in his soul. “I’ll date this dream,” he said; “so: ‘Given, these, On this, the coldest night in all the year, From this, the meanest garret in the world, In this, the greatest city in the land, To you, the richest folk this side of death, By one, the hungriest poet under heaven, —Writ while his candle sputtered in the gust, And while his last, last ember died of cold, And while the mortal ice i’ the air made free Of all his bones and bit and shrunk his heart, And while soft Luxury made show to strike Her gloved hands together and to smile What time her weary feet unconsciously Trode wheels that lifted Avarice to power, —And while, moreover, —O thou God, thou God— His worshipful sweet wife sat still, afar, Within the village whence she sent him forth Into the town to make his name and fame, Waiting, all confident and proud and calm, Till he should make for her his name and fame, Waiting—O Christ, how keen this cuts! —large-eyed, With Baby Charley till her husband make For her and him a poet’s name and fame.’ —Read me,” he cried, and rose, and stamped his foot Impatiently at Heaven, “read me this,” (Putting th’ inquiry full in the face of God) “Why can we poets dream us beauty, so, But cannot dream us bread? Why, now, can I Make, aye, create this fervid throbbing June Out of the chill, chill matter of my soul, Yet cannot make a poorest penny-loaf Out of this same chill matter, no, not one For Mary though she starved upon my breast?”  And then he fell upon his couch, and sobbed, And, late, just when his heart leaned o’er The very edge of breaking, fain to fall, God sent him sleep.  There came his room-fellow, Stout Dick, the painter, saw the written dream, Read, scratched his curly pate, smiled, winked, fell on The poem in big-hearted comic rage, Quick folded, thrust in envelope, addressed To him, the critic-god, that sitteth grim And giant-grisly on the stone causeway That leadeth to his magazine and fame.  Him, by due mail, the little Dream of June Encountered growling, and at unawares Stole in upon his poem-battered soul So that he smiled, —then shook his head upon ‘t —Then growled, then smiled again, till at the last, As one that deadly sinned against his will, He writ upon the margin of the Dream A wondrous, wondrous word that in a day Did turn the fleeting song to very bread, —Whereat Dick Painter leapt, the poet wept, And Mary slept with happy drops a-gleam Upon long lashes of her serene eyes From twentieth reading of her poet’s news Quick-sent, “O sweet my Sweet, to dream is power, And I can dream thee bread and dream thee wine, And I will dream thee robes and gems, dear Love, To clothe thy holy loveliness withal, And I will dream thee here to live by me, Thee and my little man thou hold’st at breast, —Come, Name, come, Fame, and kiss my Sweetheart’s feet!”