A VISION OF CLIMATEI dreamed that I was poor and sick and sad,Broken in hope and weary of my life;My ventures all miscarrying—naught hadFor all my labor in the heat and strife.And in my heart some certain thoughts were rifeOf an unsummoned exit. As I layConsidering my bitter state, I cried:"Alas! that hither I did ever stray.Better in some fair country to have diedThan live in such a land, where Fortune never(Unless he be successful) crowns Endeavor."Then, even as I lamented, lo! there cameA troop of Presences—I knew not whenceNor what they were: thought cannot rightly nameWhat's known through spiritual evidence,Reported not by gross material sense."Why come ye here?" I seemed to cry (though naughtMy sleeping tongue did utter) to the first—"What are ye?—with what woful message fraught?Ye have a ghastly look, as ye had burstSome sepulcher in memory. Weird creatures,I'm sure I'd know you if ye had but features."Some subtle organ noted the reply(Inaudible to ear of flesh the tone):"The Finest Climate in the World am I,From Siskiyou to San Diego known—From the Sierra to the sea. The zoneCalled semi-tropical I've pulled aboutAnd placed it where it does most good, I trust.I shake my never-failing bounty outAlike upon the just and the unjust.""That's very true," said I, "but when 'tis shakenMy share by the unjust is ever taken.""Permit me," it resumed, "now to presentMy eldest son, the Champagne Atmosphere,And others to rebuke your discontent—The Mammoth Squash, Strawberry All the Year,The fair No Lightning—flashing only here—The Wholesome Earthquake and Italian Sky,With its Unstriking Sun; and last, not least,The Compos Mentis Dog. Now, ingrate, tryTo bring a better stomach to the feast:When Nature makes a dance and pays the piper,To be unhappy is to be a viper!""Why, yet," said I, "with all your blessings fine(And Heaven forbid that I should speak them ill)I yet am poor and sick and sad. Ye shineWith more of splendor than of heat: for still,Although my will is warm, my bones are chill.""Then warm you with enthusiasm's blaze—Fortune waits not on toil," they cried; "O thenJoin the wild chorus clamoring our praise—Throw up your beaver and throw down you pen!""Begone!" I shouted. They bewent, a-smirking,And I, awakening, fell straight a-working.
I dreamed that I was poor and sick and sad,Broken in hope and weary of my life;My ventures all miscarrying—naught hadFor all my labor in the heat and strife.And in my heart some certain thoughts were rifeOf an unsummoned exit. As I layConsidering my bitter state, I cried:"Alas! that hither I did ever stray.Better in some fair country to have diedThan live in such a land, where Fortune never(Unless he be successful) crowns Endeavor."Then, even as I lamented, lo! there cameA troop of Presences—I knew not whenceNor what they were: thought cannot rightly nameWhat's known through spiritual evidence,Reported not by gross material sense."Why come ye here?" I seemed to cry (though naughtMy sleeping tongue did utter) to the first—"What are ye?—with what woful message fraught?Ye have a ghastly look, as ye had burstSome sepulcher in memory. Weird creatures,I'm sure I'd know you if ye had but features."Some subtle organ noted the reply(Inaudible to ear of flesh the tone):"The Finest Climate in the World am I,From Siskiyou to San Diego known—From the Sierra to the sea. The zoneCalled semi-tropical I've pulled aboutAnd placed it where it does most good, I trust.I shake my never-failing bounty outAlike upon the just and the unjust.""That's very true," said I, "but when 'tis shakenMy share by the unjust is ever taken.""Permit me," it resumed, "now to presentMy eldest son, the Champagne Atmosphere,And others to rebuke your discontent—The Mammoth Squash, Strawberry All the Year,The fair No Lightning—flashing only here—The Wholesome Earthquake and Italian Sky,With its Unstriking Sun; and last, not least,The Compos Mentis Dog. Now, ingrate, tryTo bring a better stomach to the feast:When Nature makes a dance and pays the piper,To be unhappy is to be a viper!""Why, yet," said I, "with all your blessings fine(And Heaven forbid that I should speak them ill)I yet am poor and sick and sad. Ye shineWith more of splendor than of heat: for still,Although my will is warm, my bones are chill.""Then warm you with enthusiasm's blaze—Fortune waits not on toil," they cried; "O thenJoin the wild chorus clamoring our praise—Throw up your beaver and throw down you pen!""Begone!" I shouted. They bewent, a-smirking,And I, awakening, fell straight a-working.