A Voyage in the Rocking Chair

(from Whisper!: 1893)

Rocking Chair (courtesy of Waylin/pixabay)

A quaint, old room, full of firelight glow:
     Warm glint and gleam, a shadowy wall,
     Showers of vivid red sparks that fall—
                    The rocking-chair swings low.

A long, gold, billowy sweep of sky:
     Between that wondrous glory and me,
     Flickering leaves on a poplar tree—
                    The rocking-chair swings high.

Now seems the world of the work-a-day
     A dim coast-line, that lessens and dies.
     Dreamily blissful, I sink and rise
                    With quiet rhythmic sway.

My pilot, Peace, brings me safe to far
     Ideal Land. I drift with the tide,
     Up the still waters that lie inside
                    The shining harbour bar.

Frances Wynne (1863-1893)
Irish poet