The Dream
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 up-turned cup and its sun a junk of red iron guttering in sluggish-green water— where shall I pour my dream?
