At ten o’clock, the houses are full of people in plain white nightgowns, and the speaker sounds let down by that whiteness. He imagines nightgowns that might be green, purple with green rings, or yellow with blue rings, and wishes people might wear strange things—lace socks, beaded sashes. But nobody does, so nobody will dream of baboons or periwinkles. The word “haunted” makes the ordinary bedtime feel a little ghostly, as if the real absence is color and imagination. Then the poem shifts to one exception: an old sailor, drunk and asleep in his boots, who catches tigers in red weather. The speaker seems to admire or at least envy that rough, vivid dream-life. The mood is quiet and wistful at first, then suddenly wild and colorful, ending with a feeling that real dreaming belongs to the outsider.
Disillusionment of Ten O’Clock — Summary
The houses are haunted By white night-gowns. None are green, Or purple with green rings, Or green with yellow rings, Or yellow with blue rings. None of them are strange, With socks of lace And beaded ceintures. People are not going To dream of baboons and periwinkles. Only, here and there, an old sailor, Drunk and asleep in his boots, Catches tigers In red weather.