Lola Ridge

I HAVE a dream

To fill the golden sheath

of a remembered day.

Air

Heavy and massed and blue

as the vapor of opium …

Domes

Fired in sulphurous mist …

Sea

Quiescent as a gray seal,

And the emerging sun

Spurting up gold

over Sydney smoke-pale,

rising out of the bay.

But the day is an upturned cup,

And its sun a junk of red iron

Guttering in sluggish-green water.

Where shall I pour my dream?