As I sit, inanely staring

In the Gas-log’s lambent flame,

Far away my fancy’s faring

To a land without a name,—

To the country of Invention,

Where I roam in ecstasy,

Where all things are mere pretension,

Nothing what it seems to be.

Folded in a calm serenic,

On a jute-bank I recline,

Where, mid moss of hue arsenic,

Millinery flowers entwine.

Cambric blooms—glass-dew beshowered,

Gay with colors aniline,

Ever eagerly devoured

By the mild, condensed milch kine.

Now the scene idyllic changes

From the meadows aniline,

And my faltering fancy ranges

Down a dismal, deep decline,

Scene of some age past upheaval,

Where no foot of man has fared,

To a Gas-log grove primeval,

Where I find me, mute, and scared

Of—I know not—Goblins, Banshees,

And the ancient Gas-trees toss

Gnarled and flickering giant branches,

Hoary with asbestos moss.

Now I come to where are waving

Painted palms, precisely planned,

Rearing trunks of cocoa shaving,

By electric zephyrs fanned,

Soothing me with sound seraphic

Till I sink into a swoon,

Dreaming cineomatographic

Dreams beneath an arc-light moon.