"Dreams?" smiled the Shadow. "What I see right well Your eyes may not behold. Yet can I tell Their import as unravelled By subtler sense, whilst through these souls they pass! What said the demon to _Don Cléophas_ As o'er Madrid they travelled?
"Such dreams as haunt us near the glimmering morn Shadow forth truth; these through the Gates of Horn Find passage to the sleeper. Prophetic? Nay! But sense therein may read The heart's desire, in pangs of love or greed; What divination deeper?
"Yon Statesman, struggling in the nightmare's grip, Fears he has let Time's scanty forelock slip, And lost a great occasion Of self-advancement. How that mouth's a-writhe With hate, on platforms oft so blandly blithe In golden-tongued persuasion!
"He, blindly blundering, as through baffling mist, Is a professional philanthropist, Rosy-gilled, genial, hearty. A mouthing Friend of Man. He dreams he's deep In jungles of self-interest, where creep Sleuth-hounds of creed and party.
"That sleek-browed sleeper? 'Tis the Great Pooh-pooh, The 'Mugwump' of the _Weekly Whillaloo_, A most superior creature; Too high for pity and too cold for wrath; The pride of dawdlers on the Higher Path Suffuses every feature.
"Contemptuous, he, of clamorous party strife, And all the hot activities of life; But most the Politician He mocks--for 'meanness.' How the prig would gasp If shown the slime-trail of that wriggling asp In his own haunts Elysian!
"He dreams Creation, cleared of vulgar noise, Is dedicate to calm æsthetic joys, That he is limply lolling Amidst the lilies that toil not nor spin, Given quite to dandy scorn, and dainty sin, And languor, and 'log-rolling.'
"The head which on that lace-trimmed pillow lies Is fair as Psyche's. Yes, those snow-veiled eyes Look Dian-pure and saintly. Sure no Aholibah could own those lips, Through whose soft lusciousness the bland breath slips So fragrantly and faintly.
"That up-curved arm which bears the silken knot Of dusky hair, is it more free from blot Than is her soul who slumbers? Her visions? Of 'desirable young men,' Who crowd round her like swine round Circe's pen In ever-swelling numbers.
"Of Love? Nay, but of lovers. Love's a lean And impecunious urchin; lovers mean Gifts, worship, triumph--Money! The Golden Apple is the fruit to witch Our modern Atalantas. To be rich, Live on life's milk and honey;