Gustav RichterAfter a long day of work in my hot—housesSleep was sweet, but if you sleep on your left sideYour dreams may be abruptly ended.I was among my flowers where some oneSeemed to be raising them on trial,As if after-while to be transplantedTo a larger garden of freer air.And I was disembodied visionAmid a light, as it were the sunHad floated in and touched the roof of glassLike a toy balloon and softly bursted,And etherealized in golden air.And all was silence, except the splendorWas immanent with thought as clearAs a speaking voice, and I, as thought,Could hear a Presence think as he walkedBetween the boxes pinching off leaves,Looking for bugs and noting values,With an eye that saw it all:“Homer, oh yes! Pericles, good.Caesar Borgia, what shall be done with it?Dante, too much manure, perhaps.Napoleon, leave him awhile as yet.Shelley, more soil. Shakespeare, needs spraying—”Clouds, eh!—
After a long day of work in my hot—housesSleep was sweet, but if you sleep on your left sideYour dreams may be abruptly ended.I was among my flowers where some oneSeemed to be raising them on trial,As if after-while to be transplantedTo a larger garden of freer air.And I was disembodied visionAmid a light, as it were the sunHad floated in and touched the roof of glassLike a toy balloon and softly bursted,And etherealized in golden air.And all was silence, except the splendorWas immanent with thought as clearAs a speaking voice, and I, as thought,Could hear a Presence think as he walkedBetween the boxes pinching off leaves,Looking for bugs and noting values,With an eye that saw it all:“Homer, oh yes! Pericles, good.Caesar Borgia, what shall be done with it?Dante, too much manure, perhaps.Napoleon, leave him awhile as yet.Shelley, more soil. Shakespeare, needs spraying—”Clouds, eh!—