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Best Famous In Your Dreams Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous In Your Dreams poems. This is a select list of the best famous In Your Dreams poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous In Your Dreams poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of in your dreams poems.

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Written by Galway Kinnell | Create an image from this poem

Little Sleeps-Head Sprouting Hair in the Moonlight


You scream, waking from a nightmare.
When I sleepwalk into your room, and pick you up, and hold you up in the moonlight, you cling to me hard, as if clinging could save us.
I think you think I will never die, I think I exude to you the permanence of smoke or stars, even as my broken arms heal themselves around you.
2 I have heard you tell the sun, don't go down, I have stood by as you told the flower, don't grow old, don't die.
Little Maud, I would blow the flame out of your silver cup, I would suck the rot from your fingernail, I would brush your sprouting hair of the dying light, I would scrape the rust off your ivory bones, I would help death escape through the little ribs of your body, I would alchemize the ashes of your cradle back into wood, I would let nothing of you go, ever, until washerwomen feel the clothes fall asleep in their hands, and hens scratch their spell across hatchet blades, and rats walk away from the cultures of the plague, and iron twists weapons toward the true north, and grease refuses to slide in the machinery of progress, and men feel as free on earth as fleas on the bodies of men, and lovers no longer whisper to the presence beside them in the dark, O corpse-to-be .
And yet perhaps this is the reason you cry, this the nightmare you wake screaming from: being forever in the pre-trembling of a house that falls.
3 In a restaurant once, everyone quietly eating, you clambered up on my lap: to all the mouthfuls rising toward all the mouths, at the top of your voice you cried your one word, caca! caca! caca! and each spoonful stopped, a moment, in midair, in its withering steam.
Yes, you cling because I, like you, only sooner than you, will go down the path of vanished alphabets, the roadlessness to the other side of the darkness, your arms like the shoes left behind, like the adjectives in the halting speech of old men, which once could call up the lost nouns.
4 And you yourself, some impossible Tuesday in the year Two Thousand and Nine, will walk out among the black stones of the field, in the rain, and the stones saying over their one word, ci-g?t, ci-g?t, ci-g?t, and the raindrops hitting you on the fontanel over and over, and you standing there unable to let them in.
5 If one day it happens you find yourself with someone you love in a caf¨¦ at one end of the Pont Mirabeau, at the zinc bar where white wine stands in upward opening glasses, and if you commit then, as we did, the error of thinking, one day all this will only be memory, learn, as you stand at this end of the bridge which arcs, from love, you think, into enduring love, learn to reach deeper into the sorrows to come ¨C to touch the almost imaginary bones under the face, to hear under the laughter the wind crying across the black stones.
Kiss the mouth which tells you, here, here is the world.
This mouth.
This laughter.
These temple bones.
The still undanced cadence of vanishing.
6 In the light the moon sends back, I can see in your eyes the hand that waved once in my father's eyes, a tiny kite wobbling far up in the twilight of his last look: and the angel of all mortal things lets go the string.
7 Back you go, into your crib.
The last blackbird lights up his gold wings: farewell.
Your eyes close inside your head, in sleep.
Already in your dreams the hours begin to sing.
Little sleep's-head sprouting hair in the moonlight, when I come back we will go out together, we will walk out together among the ten thousand things, each scratched too late with such knowledge, the wages of dying is love.

Written by Charles Kingsley | Create an image from this poem

Ode to the Northeast Wind

 Welcome, wild Northeaster! 
Shame it is to see 
Odes to every zephyr; 
Ne'er a verse to thee.
Welcome, black Northeaster! O'er the German foam; O'er the Danish moorlands, From thy frozen home.
Tired are we of summer, Tired of gaudy glare, Showers soft and steaming, Hot and breathless air.
Tired of listless dreaming, Through the lazy day-- Jovial wind of winter Turn us out to play! Sweep the golden reed-beds; Crisp the lazy dike; Hunger into madness Every plunging pike.
Fill the lake with wild fowl; Fill the marsh with snipe; While on dreary moorlands Lonely curlew pipe.
Through the black fir-forest Thunder harsh and dry, Shattering down the snowflakes Off the curdled sky.
Hark! The brave Northeaster! Breast-high lies the scent, On by holt and headland, Over heath and bent.
Chime, ye dappled darlings, Through the sleet and snow.
Who can override you? Let the horses go! Chime, ye dappled darlings, Down the roaring blast; You shall see a fox die Ere an hour be past.
Go! and rest tomorrow, Hunting in your dreams, While our skates are ringing O'er the frozen streams.
Let the luscious Southwind Breathe in lovers' sighs, While the lazy gallants Bask in ladies' eyes.
What does he but soften Heart alike and pen? 'Tis the hard gray weather Breeds hard English men.
What's the soft Southwester? 'Tis the ladies' breeze, Bringing home their trueloves Out of all the seas.
But the black Northeaster, Through the snowstorm hurled, Drives our English hearts of oak Seaward round the world.
Come, as came our fathers, Heralded by thee, Conquering from the eastward, Lords by land and sea.
Come; and strong, within us Stir the Vikings' blood; Bracing brain and sinew; Blow, thou wind of God!
Written by Linda Pastan | Create an image from this poem

A New Poet

 Finding a new poet
is like finding a new wildflower
out in the woods.
You don't see its name in the flower books, and nobody you tell believes in its odd color or the way its leaves grow in splayed rows down the whole length of the page.
In fact the very page smells of spilled red wine and the mustiness of the sea on a foggy day - the odor of truth and of lying.
And the words are so familiar, so strangely new, words you almost wrote yourself, if only in your dreams there had been a pencil or a pen or even a paintbrush, if only there had been a flower.
Written by Adela Florence Cory Nicolson | Create an image from this poem

To the Hills!

   The tremulous morning is breaking
     Against the white waste of the sky,
   And hundreds of birds are awaking
     In tamarisk bushes hard by.
   I, waiting alone in the station,
     Can hear in the distance, grey-blue,
   The sound of that iron desolation,
     The train that will bear me from you.

   'T will carry me under your casement,
     You'll feel in your dreams as you lie
   The quiver, from gable to basement,
     The rush of my train sweeping by.
   And I shall look out as I pass it,—
     Your dear, unforgettable door,
   'T was ours till last night, but alas! it
     Will never be mine any more.

   Through twilight blue-grey and uncertain,
     Where frost leaves the window-pane free,
   I'll look at the tinsel-edged curtain
     That hid so much pleasure for me.
   I go to my long undone duty
     Alone in the chill and the gloom,
   My eyes are still full of the beauty
     I leave in your rose-scented room.

   Lie still in your dreams; for your tresses
     Are free of my lingering kiss.
   I keep you awake with caresses
     No longer; be happy in this!
   From passion you told me you hated
     You're now and for ever set free,
   I pass in my train, sorrow-weighted,
     Your house that was Heaven to me.

   You won't find a trace, when you waken,
     Of me or my love of the past,
   Rise up and rejoice!  I have taken
     My longed-for departure at last.
   My fervent and useless persistence
     You never need suffer again,
   Nor even perceive in the distance
     The smoke of my vanishing train!
Written by Robert Louis Stevenson | Create an image from this poem

Air Of Diabellis

 CALL it to mind, O my love.
Dear were your eyes as the day, Bright as the day and the sky; Like the stream of gold and the sky above, Dear were your eyes in the grey.
We have lived, my love, O, we have lived, my love! Now along the silent river, azure Through the sky's inverted image, Softly swam the boat that bore our love, Swiftly ran the shallow of our love Through the heaven's inverted image, In the reedy mazes round the river.
See along the silent river, See of old the lover's shallop steer.
Berried brake and reedy island, Heaven below and only heaven above.
Through the sky's inverted image Swiftly swam the boat that bore our love.
Berried brake and reedy island, Mirrored flower and shallop gliding by.
All the earth and all the sky were ours, Silent sat the wafted lovers, Bound with grain and watched by all the sky, Hand to hand and eye to .
Days of April, airs of Eden, Call to mind how bright the vanished angel hours, Golden hours of evening, When our boat drew homeward filled with flowers.
O darling, call them to mind; love the past, my love.
Days of April, airs of Eden.
How the glory died through golden hours, And the shining moon arising; How the boat drew homeward filled with flowers.
Age and winter close us slowly in.
Level river, cloudless heaven, Islanded reed mazes, silver weirs; How the silent boat with silver Threads the inverted forest as she goes, Broke the trembling green of mirrored trees.
O, remember, and remember How the berries hung in garlands.
Still in the river see the shallop floats.
Hark! Chimes the falling oar.
Still in the mind Hark to the song of the past! Dream, and they pass in their dreams.
Those that loved of yore, O those that loved of yore! Hark through the stillness, O darling, hark! Through it all the ear of the mind Knows the boat of love.
Hark! Chimes the falling oar.
O half in vain they grew old.
Now the halcyon days are over, Age and winter close us slowly round, And these sounds at fall of even Dim the sight and muffle all the sound.
And at the married fireside, sleep of soul and sleep of fancy, Joan and Darby.
Silence of the world without a sound; And beside the winter ****** Joan and Darby sit and dose and dream and wake - Dream they hear the flowing, singing river, See the berries in the island brake; Dream they hear the weir, See the gliding shallop mar the stream.
Hark! in your dreams do you hear? Snow has filled the drifted forest; Ice has bound the .
Frost has bound our flowing river; Snow has whitened all our island brake.
Berried brake and reedy island, Heaven below and only heaven above azure Through the sky's inverted image Safely swam the boat that bore our love.
Dear were your eyes as the day, Bright ran the stream, bright hung the sky above.
Days of April, airs of Eden.
How the glory died through golden hours, And the shining moon arising, How the boat drew homeward filled with flowers.
Bright were your eyes in the night: We have lived, my love; O, we have loved, my love.
Now the .
days are over, Age and winter close us slowly round.
Vainly time departs, and vainly Age and winter come and close us round.
Hark the river's long continuous sound.
Hear the river ripples in the reeds.
Lo, in dreams they see their shallop Run the lilies down and drown the weeds Mid the sound of crackling faggots.
So in dreams the new created Happy past returns, to-day recedes, And they hear once more, From the old years, Yesterday returns, to-day recedes, And they hear with aged hearing warbles Love's own river ripple in the weeds.
And again the lover's shallop; Lo, the shallop sheds the streaming weeds; And afar in foreign countries In the ears of aged lovers.
And again in winter evens Starred with lilies .
with stirring weeds.
In these ears of aged lovers Love's own river ripples in the reeds.

Written by Henry Van Dyke | Create an image from this poem

Fire-Fly City

 Like a long arrow through the dark the train is darting,
Bearing me far away, after a perfect day of love's delight:
Wakeful with all the sad-sweet memories of parting,
I lift the narrow window-shade and look out on the night.
Lonely the land unknown, and like a river flowing, Forest and field and hill are gliding backward still athwart my dream; Till in that country strange, and ever stranger growing, A magic city full of lights begins to glow and gleam.
Wide through the landscape dim the lamps are lit in millions; Long avenues unfold clear-shining lines of gold across the green; Clusters and rings of light, and luminous pavilions, -- Oh, who will tell the city's name, and what these wonders mean? Why do they beckon me, and what have they to show me? Crowds in the blazing street, mirth where the feasters meet, kisses and wine: Many to laugh with me, but never one to know me: A cityful of stranger-hearts and none to beat with mine! Look how the glittering lines are wavering and lifting, -- Softly the breeze of night, scatters the vision bright: and, passing fair, Over the meadow-grass and through the forest drifting, The Fire-Fly City of the Dark is lost in empty air! Girl of the golden eyes, to you my heart is turning: Sleep in your quiet room, while through the midnight gloom my train is whirled.
Clear in your dreams of me the light of love is burning, -- The only never failing light in all the phantom world.
Written by Eugene Field | Create an image from this poem

Sicilian Lullaby

 Hush, little one, and fold your hands;
The sun hath set, the moon is high;
The sea is singing to the sands,
And wakeful posies are beguiled
By many a fairy lullaby:
Hush, little child, my little child!

Dream, little one, and in your dreams
Float upward from this lowly place,--
Float out on mellow, misty streams
To lands where bideth Mary mild,
And let her kiss thy little face,
You little child, my little child!

Sleep, little one, and take thy rest,
With angels bending over thee,--
Sleep sweetly on that Father's breast
Whom our dear Christ hath reconciled;
But stay not there,--come back to me,
O little child, my little child!