IN the garden of dreams let me rest, far, far from the laboring throng,
from the moans of the tired and distressed, from the strains of the
conqueror’s song. As a native of Bagdad, or Turk, I’d live in Arabian
nights, away from the regions of work, from troubles and hollow
delights. In the garden of dreams I would stray, and bother my fat head
no more, a-wondering how I shall pay for groceries bought at the store.
Ah, there in that garden I’d sit, communing in peace with my soul, and
never again have a fit when handed the bill for the coal. In the garden
of dreams I’d recline and soar on the wings of romance, forgetting this
old hat of mine, the patches all over my pants, the clamor of children
for shoes, the hausfrau’s demands for a gown, the lodge’s exorbitant
dues, the polltax to work in the town. Alas! It is as I supposed—there
is no escaping my fate, for the garden of dreams has been closed, a
padlock is fixed on the gate. The young, who are buoyant and glad, may
enter that garden, it seems; but the old, who are weary and sad, are
warned from the garden of dreams!
------------------------------------------------------------------------