In dream, she fished with silk of swans,
Baited her hooks of hammered bronze
With rainbow strips of cuttlefish,
And might have paused to make a wish
Or prayed her prayer for daily bread
Before she cast the humming thread
Into the seven seas of years,
Into the music of the spheres,
Into the transcendental streams,
Into the mystery of dreams—
For all we know is that she caught
By that frail line the sleeping thought
Of he who stirred and dreamed her face,
The supple form, the swan-like grace
Of lovely she who sighed and rolled
Away in sleep, as dumb and cold
To him as any cobblestone,
As thoughtless as a marrow bone.
O dream-born tales, to us confess
Our wants in rightest words that bless,
And ease those waking to a day
Of mortal hurts and heart’s dismay.
—Marly Youmans
Dear Reader,
Can I be direct with you?
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But we can’t do it without readers like you.
Our goal: Raise $150,000 by November 1 to sustain First Things in the year ahead.
Your gift anchors readers in the permanent things.
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