No, let me tell you your dream:
The scape all ‘round slides away in lunar gray,
An owl upon your shoulder hoots a low
and ponderous hoot that in your ear you may
be slowly going deaf… and the cruel fowl knows!
Oh no? That wasn’t it? I thought for sure…
well here’s the one, that dream of yours:
The dust of angels—no, gold, silently
Shimmers down to rest upon the leaves
Of the great magnolia tree in which you see
yourself in fullest nudity, a sight for—no?
No? that’s not your dream? You never saw such?
Then this one’s yours… I should’ve known as much:
You sit enthroned with all enthralled but one
who weeps, one of your priests Your Greatness keeps.
You say he failed to sooth as oft he’d done,
but mighty mercy would be his to—no?
Well then live forever, O’ King.
But as for dreaming, please do it never.
Matthew Mehan is a graduate of the University of Dallas ‘00 and currently a Ph.D. student in Literature at that same fine institution. He is a Contributing Editor for MercatorNet, a faculty member on a leave of absence from The Heights School, in Washington DC, and a graduate assitant for the Center for Thomas More Studies.