characteristic of the turning years. Just as the values and mode de vie of the 19th century persisted with a decorative decadence well into the first decade of the dawning epoch, so our 20th century morality clashes with this new era, and sounds an even clearer cacophony as we finish off with a flourish its first decade.In honor of this exquisite melange of love and dreams I propose this love poem, written by one of the dreamiest, most transcendental voices of the recent siecle, W.B. Yeats.
He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven
Had I the heaven's embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams.
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
Here we have the dreams of Joseph and his father. The loss of old world vestments and all they mean to our heritage mixed with the resulting poverty of a modernity stripped of romance and formalities. "But ah! she dreams not now; dream thou!" commands our sage.
Traum, sounds the German word, reminding the English ear of the shocks that color so much of the last century. Reve, sounds the French, singing a different tune. Reveries beg from modernity the slowness necessary to come to fruition. In our own tongue, dreams have a delightful history, signifying in Old English "joy," "mirth," and also "music."Vienna, lover of music and dance, in all of Calliope's costumes, has long been heralded the city of dreams. Vienna, the city who promises soon to welcome me into her cafés, her woods, and her dreams. Vienna!
Wien, Wien, nur du allein,
Wirst stets die Stadt meiner Träume sein.
