The writer’s life is called lonely;
They dream in desolate lands
As they sink into their solitary sleep-
They see things not made by hands.
They wander o’er the wild places
That their intrepid dreams take them to.
They speak to the hidden dream faces
That e’ery night they imagine anew.
Every night they are doomed to wander,
But not all who wander are lost,
For their day-work is inspired by lands yonder,
And of all the dream-places they have crossed.
Thus, the poet is ne’er to be called lonely,
Though they dream of lonely places.
They see more than us in their visions nightly-
And speak to their hidden friends with hidden faces.
May 17, 2012
May 17, 2012 at 9:46 PM UTC
The writer’s life is called lonely;
They dream in desolate lands
As they sink into their solitary sleep-
They see things not made by hands.
They wander o’er the wild places
That their intrepid dreams take them to.
They speak to the hidden dream faces
That e’ery night they imagine anew.
Every night they are doomed to wander,
But not all who wander are lost,
For their day-work is inspired by lands yonder,
And of all the dream-places they have crossed.
Thus, the poet is ne’er to be called lonely,
Though they dream of lonely places.
They see more than us in their visions nightly-
And speak to their hidden friends with hidden faces.
Based on "Why Do Ye Call the Poet Loney?" by Archibald Lampman
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