Danny James

Tag: dreams

151: delay dims thrust

Like many such days designed and pressed with expectation, I relent rather to dormancy’s caramel tenure, that calculation has exhausted the hands would earn their bread. And it is not before the sheer that I bend; I reserve no energy for homecomings, and storm or mountain perchance be-damned if we but departed forthwith. I’m intent and flint as any have I known, but struck in aim and vernal outrage, many of the bridges from which I’ve leapt are ashes now. Mark how my wake bears charring of my passage, that life must wrung of its barbarian dreams be, and they, hitched and ridden across the arches of infinitude among such star stuff as hero’s call home, and the dying, paradise. It is not the errand itself, but the preparation that, too long drawn out, wanes the breath of that dividing lunge and kills the dashing in me. Momentous endeavours of great risk and dividend require oddly proportioned drafts of growth stratagem, and a vein of personal patience like exhibits a column saint. The better influence of discretion swells but when the sum of necessary efforts, by their own are a metric, and the cannons thus are cold that cannot a smoking wick inspire them. I have often too, fatigued myself thinking long beyond a common bound of hopes fantastical, only to climb down off my Nebula and let the air out of the day, – deflate its glorious promise, and murder all my plans and prospects thoroughly.

124: When it rains

It arrives odd hours my sweeping inspirations; a torrential outpouring that, warrantless rains hard with no remark to my good pattern and springs me from recess semi-witted, into duty. A catch or two o’ the break would keep me in high cheer and portly health for days, and so fretting about the cabin, sought a handy pail, barely at most have I hope or humour to hold a vessel high and exclaim ‘it falls, how it falls,’ that it no sooner starts raining but it stops.

114: Going

This is the last night in your own bed for some time, and there is an alveolus melancholy unfolds your repose; when strange pillows will nestle ambling thoughts. But you’ve craved long this new trouble, like secrets of saccharose, and must let wash over you its mastery implied. The stars now will hold your dreams, and bid vault thee loose of tethers customs, into the intimate revolution on the other side of a threshold toward infinity. But one fine sleep now walls your wildness, and soon enough at hand will it be, the going hour. Some know this feeling, of calm supra cusp; the breath on Winters window. Ripeness broiling at the fringe, at the steps of High School Balls. Poised withal, the upright young woman going to her first dance under the lights.


Our deepest desires are not hidden, but lying in wait at the end of a long trying road which, trudging forward, suddenly you will come upon and wonder how.


No Spring will come to whom does not bring it along, nor sleep, whom does not dream.

81: Greetings again, September

The air is a blanket woven with gleeful murmurings and Spring light, as all of Nature’s children have awoken from Wintertide dreams, and climbing from their buds are rehearsing their powers, until a doting sun would lift them up.

77: The loveliness of long life

Few things entreat my curiosity like the uncompelled and contented every man, who sleeps entire nights and no dream after permits to filter unremarkable days. How nice, in some respects, must immortality be.


Every Artist is a lone, celestial emissary of change.


Perseverance is the bridge between where you are now and everything you have ever wanted.


How lovely is, even the very word dream, that though one may but flirt across the outskirts of its cotton plains and candy fields, surely some scent of loveliness still sits upon the lapel, and joins thee a little further up the hill.