To fling my arms wide
In some place of the sun,
To whirl and to dance
Till the white day is done.
Then rest at cool evening
Beneath a tall tree
While night comes on gently,
    Dark like me—
That is my dream!

To fling my arms wide
In the face of the sun,
Dance! Whirl! Whirl!
Till the quick day is done.
Rest at pale evening . . .
A tall, slim tree . . .
Night coming tenderly
    Black like me.

Huffy Henry hid    the day,
unappeasable Henry sulked.
I see his point,—a trying to put things over.
It was the thought that they thought
they could do it made Henry wicked & away.
But he should have come out and talked.

All the world like a woolen lover
once did seem on Henry's side.
Then came a departure.
Thereafter nothing fell out as it might or ought.
I don't see how Henry, pried
open for all the world to see, survived.

What he has now to say is a long
wonder the world can bear & be.
Once in a sycamore I was glad
all at the top, and I sang.
Hard on the land wears the strong sea
and empty grows every bed.

Hold fast to dreams 

For if dreams die

Life is a broken-winged bird

That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams

For when dreams go

Life is a barren field

Frozen with snow.

On cloudy Sundays clouds are in my heart
as if my brother came, as if the rain
lingered among the mushrooms and the art
of freedom washed into the murder train
or rinsed the peat bog soldiers of the camp.¹
On cloudy Sundays clouds are with Joe Hill.
Last night I dreamt he was alive. The tramp
was mining clouds for thunder. And uphill
into the clouds I feel that time descends,
as if my mother came, as if the moon
were flowering between the thighs of friends
and gave us fire. On Sundays when the swan
of death circles my heart, the cloudy noon
rolls me gaping like dice, though I am gone. 

^{1. The peat bog soldiers were prisoners of war in the Börgerniir Nazi concentration camp in Lower Saxony. The song was composed in German by inmates and sung by thousands of inmates as they marched with their digging spades instead of rifles. It became a resistance song in many languages during World War II. In his resonant voice Paul Robeson famously sang it both in German and English.}

^{Wir sind die Moorsoldaten
und ziehen mit dem Spaten ins Moor.
Wir sind die Moorsoldaten
und ziehen mit dem Spaten ins Moor.}

^{We are the peat bog soldiers,
Marching with our spades to the moor.
We are the peat bog soldiers,
Marching with our spades to the moor.}

^{For Norman}

You visit me in a dream after passing,
            after I’ve been awaiting you for weeks,
because Chinese belief teaches us our
            loved ones will appear when we’re asleep.
It’s real when I enter the hotel restaurant
            in the middle of nowhere town I live in,
as the Midwest architecture transforms
            into Kowloon at evening time. We eat
bird’s nest soup, and I remember the time
            my father ordered me this four-hundred-
year-old delicacy at Hong Kong airport.
            Out comes the Peking duck, and I ask you:
“Why did it take you so long?” You answer:
            “I arrived once you were strong and ready.” 

If I was president
I would help people
and be a good representative
and not lose to profanity
as people stay repetitive
The news would report neatly
as the issues stay relevant
We won’t slack again
I’ll be there for rebuttal
We will get started in a position
of greatness, which is ever so nice
So I’m willing to take risks for the
country and roll the dice
but as for a poetic melody
the world is full of treachery
mile to mile betrayal shall
stay under me, I’ll be
the role model, the one
to step up as I must
We win as we stand and forever
God we trust.

Once in a dream (for once I dreamed of you)
    We stood together in an open field;
    Above our heads two swift-winged pigeons wheeled, 
Sporting at east and courting full in view:—
When loftier still a broadening darkness flew, 
    Down-swooping, and a ravenous hawk revealed;
    Too weak to fight, too fond to fly, they yield;
So farewell life and love and pleasures new. 
Then as their plumes fell fluttering to the ground, 
    Their snow-white plumage flecked with crimson drops, 
        I wept, and thought I turned towards you to weep:
    But you were gone; while rustling hedgerow tops 
Bent in a wind which bore to me a sound
        Of far-off piteous bleat of lambs and sheep. 

Rich raptures, you say, our dreams assume,

Slaking the heart’s immortal thirst?

Only the old we reillume;

But think—to have dreamed the flowers first!

Think,—to have dreamed the first blue sea;

Imaged every illustrious hue

Of the earliest sunset’s tapestry;

And the snow,—and the birds, when their songs were new!

Think,—from the blue of highest heaven

To have sown all the stars, to have whispered “Light!”—

Hung a moon in a prismy even,

Spun a world on its splendid flight!

To have first conceived of boundless Space;

To have thought so small as to garb the trees;

All planet years in your mind’s embrace,—

And the midge’s life, for all of these!

And Man still boasts of his brain’s weak best

In dream or invention; from first to last

Blunders ’mid wonders barely guessed.

And fondly believes that his thoughts are “vast”!

Yes, I believe in fairies.
I believe in brownies too.
Yes, I believe in fairies,
Because I know they’re true.
And if you’ll learn to love them,
They’ll come and play with you.

—There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed in your
philosophy.
—Like what?
—Like miracles—like changes of power—like changes in climate—like
political climates collapsing like polar ice caps—like the dungeon becoming
the crown and the crown the dungeon—like not paying attention to
bullies—like superpowers running out of fuel—like finding oil in the
dungeon of liberty—like the dungeon of liberty becoming a gold mine—like
useless poets changing the way the world thinks and sings—like a voice
coming out of the dungeon—a useless voice that has something to say but
doesn’t know how to market it—like finding yourself for the first time
happy—even though you’re in prison. Like finding camaraderie and
solidarity among friends you never thought could be your friends. Like
understanding the other—not loving the other—but putting yourself in the
shoes of the other—not to take their position—not to steal what the other
has—but to feel what the other feels—to appreciate his thoughts. Not to be
ironic—clever—smart—but to be profound—not to be the boss who puts
everybody down—but to be the leader of a chorus of voices—each and
every single one of them having their own point of view—like saying—stop being a predicate and become a subject.