A Reverie [poem by Agnes L. Storrie]

[Editor: This poem by Agnes L. Storrie was published in Poems, 1909.]

A Reverie.

There are pink geraniums in the vases near me,
Their tinted faces look into my own,
Methinks they almost understand and hear me,
As moodily I ponder here alone.

Oh! pretty little pink geraniums bending
Your innocent young glances down on me,
I know the message you are gently sending —
The message of your silent sympathy.

Slow ticks the clock, the silence punctuating,
Outside the wind doth underline it deep,
While overhead the stars are palpitating
With golden lustre, even in their sleep.

And in the stillness, Thought whom I evaded
Through all the noisy turmoil of the day
Has laid his hand upon me and the faded
Brilliance of his eyes, and sent away

The lovely little dream-nymphs, who with kirtles
Of fairy fancies broidered with delight
Dwelt happily among the flowering myrtles
Of a domain I hide from mortal sight.

Oh ! pretty little pink geraniums, listen !
I do not want this stern invader, Thought,
I want the dewy eyes that gleam and glisten,
The glimmering hair by lily fingers caught.

I want the happy little laughing faces,
The scarlet lips that smile, the feet that play,
The shreds of gold, the film of snowy laces,
The little dream-loves Thought has sent away.

I do not want to think, to weigh and ponder,
To know life’s hard reality,
To muse upon the dreary facts that yonder
In the great world hold high supremacy.

I do not want to know — I’m tired of knowing,
I want to weave my fancy webs in peace,
What use to watch the shadows growing, growing?
To count the tears that fall and never cease?

I want my little dream-loves back beside me,
I want their hands to lie content in mine,
Their fragile wings are strong enough to hide me,
Their kisses are life’s surest anodyne.

Oh ! pretty little pink geraniums, tell me
Where shall I find them? Tender are your eyes,
You bend down from your vases, and impel me
To stop and listen to your low replies.

I hear the words you whisper in my ear,
Words gentle, yet with bitter meaning fraught —
“Thy little dream-loves, they are gone, we fear,
Dead, frozen by the icy breath of Thought.”

Source:
Agnes L. Storrie. Poems, J. W. Kettlewell, Sydney, 1909, pages 121-123