Under the Dream
The raven on my window sill,
Dark as a moonless night,
Cast its jaundiced eye at me,
At which my soul took flight.
I tried to hide beneath the sheet,
But the raven croaked once proudly;
I shivered like a candle flame,
And sobbed, but never loudly.
The raven spread his rough black wings,
Flew into the empty, dreamlike night,
Taking with his soaring flight,
All thoughts of love and mystic sight.
A youth in armored mail appeared,
Dressed for battle, conflict, war
Against a mighty, ancient foe
Like dragon, demon, death or more.
What more than dragon can there be?
What more than demon, death or sin,
Battles that no youth should fight
And serious, hope to win?
But if the youth were gifted,
An Angel sent with grace,
His sword divine, well tempered,
No struggle need take place.
As I threw off the covering sheet,
The warrior with the shining face
Restored my missing, frightened soul,
And my heart to its rightful place.
Image: Satan viewing the ascent to heaven (Paradise Lost, book 3, line 501) by John Martin, 1825 [The Clark Museum, Williamstown, MA]
