CANTO VI

1The sun was high in heaven and Dymer stoodA bright speck on the endless mountain-side.Till, blossom after blossom, that rich moodFaded and truth rolled homeward, like a tideBefore whose edge the weak soul fled to hideIn vain, with ostrich head, through many a shapeOf coward fancy, whimpering for escape.2But only for a moment; then his soulTook the full swell and heaved a dripping prowClear of the shattering wave-crest. He was whole.No veils should hide the truth, no truth should cowThe dear self-pitying heart “I’ll babble nowNo longer,” Dymer said. “I’m broken in.Pack up the dreams and let the life begin.”3With this he turned. “I must have food to-day,”He muttered. Then among the cloudless hillsBy winding tracks he sought the downward wayAnd followed the steep course of tumbling rills—Came to the glens the wakening mountain fillsIn springtime with the echoing splash and shockOf waters leaping cold from rock to rock.4And still, it seemed, that lark with its refrainSang in the sky and wind was in his hairAnd hope at heart. Then once, and once again,He heard a gun fired off. It broke the airAs a stone breaks a pond, and everywhereThe dry crags echoed clear: and at the soundOnce a big bird rose whirring from the ground.5In half an hour he reached the level landAnd followed the field-paths and crossed the stiles,Then looked and saw, near by, on his left handAn old house, folded round with billowy pilesOf dark yew hedge. The moss was on the tiles,The pigeons in the yard, and in the towerA clock that had no hands and told no hour.6He hastened. In warm waves the garden scentCame stronger at each stride. The mountain breezeWas gone. He reached the gates; then in he wentAnd seemed to lose the sky—such weight of treesHung overhead. He heard the noise of beesAnd saw, far off, in the blue shade betweenThe windless elms, one walking on the green.7It was a mighty man whose beardless faceBeneath grey hair shone out so large and mildIt made a sort of moonlight in the place.A dreamy desperation, wistful-wild,Showed in his glance and gait: yet like a child,An Asian emperor’s only child, was heWith his grave looks and bright solemnity.8And over him there hung the witching air,The wilful courtesy, of the days of old.The graces wherein idleness grows fair;And somewhat in his sauntering walk he rolledAnd toyed about his waist with seals of gold,Or stood to ponder often in mid-stride,Tilting his heavy head upon one side.9When Dymer had called twice, he turned his eye:Then, coming out of silence (as a starAll in one moment slips into the skyOf evening, yet we feel it comes from far),He said, “Sir, you are welcome. Few there areThat come my way”: and in huge hands he pressedDymer’s cold hand and bade him in to rest.10“How did you find this place out? Have you heardMy gun? It was but now I killed a lark.”“What Sir,” said Dymer, “shoot the singing bird?”“Sir,” said the man, “they sing from dawn till dark,And interrupt my dreams too long. But hark...Another? Did you hear no singing? No?It was my fancy, then ... pray, let it go.11“From here you see my garden’s only flaw.Stand here, Sir, at the dial.” Dymer stood.The Master pointed; then he looked and sawHow hedges and the funeral quietudeOf black trees fringed the garden like a wood,And only, in one place, one gap that showedThe blue side of the hills, the white hill-road.12“I have planted fir and larch to fill the gap,”He said, “because this too makes war uponThe art of dream. But by some great mishapNothing I plant will grow there. We pass on....The sunshine of the afternoon is gone.Let us go in. It draws near time to sup—I hate the garden till the moon is up.”13They passed from the hot lawn into the gloomAnd coolness of the porch: then, past a doorThat opened with no noise, into a roomWhere green leaves choked the window and the floorSank lower than the ground. A tattered storeOf brown books met the eye: a crystal ball:And masks with empty eyes along the wall.14Then Dymer sat, but knew not how nor where,And supper was set out before these two,—He saw not how—with silver old and rareBut tarnished. And he ate and never knewWhat meats they were. At every bite he grewMore drowsy and let slide his crumbling will.The Master at his side was talking still.15And all his talk was tales of magic wordsAnd of the nations in the clouds above,Astral and aerish tribes who fish for birdsWith angles. And by history he could proveHow chosen spirits from earth had won their love,As Arthur, or Usheen: and to their isleWent Helen for the sake of a Greek smile.16And ever in his talk he mustered wellHis texts and strewed old authors round the way,“Thus Wierus writes,” and “Thus the Hermetics tell,”“This was Agrippa’s view,” and “Others sayWith Cardan,” till he had stolen quite awayDymer’s dull wits and softly drawn apartThe ivory gates of hope that change the heart.17Dymer was talking now. Now Dymer toldOf his own love and losing, drowsily.The Master leaned towards him, “Was it cold,This spirit, to the touch?”—“No, Sir, not she,”Said Dymer. And his host: “Why this must beAethereal, not aereal! Oh my soul,Be still ... but wait. Tell on, Sir, tell the whole.”18Then Dymer told him of the beldam too,The old, old, matriarchal dreadfulness.Over the Master’s face a shadow drew,He shifted in his chair and “Yes” and “Yes,”He murmured twice. “I never looked for less!Always the same ... that frightful woman shapeBesets the dream-way and the soul’s escape.”19But now when Dymer made to talk of Bran,A huge indifference fell upon his host,Patient and wandering-eyed. Then he began,“Forgive me. You are young. What helps us mostIs to find out again that heavenly ghostWho loves you. For she was a ghost, and youIn that place where you met were ghostly too.20“Listen! for I can launch you on the streamWill roll you to the shores of her own land....I could be sworn you never learned to dream,But every night you take with careless handWhat chance may bring? I’ll teach you to commandThe comings and the goings of your spiritThrough all that borderland which dreams inherit.21“You shall have hauntings suddenly. And often,When you forget, when least you think of her(For so you shall forget) a light will softenOver the evening woods. And in the stirOf morning dreams (oh, I will teach you, Sir)There’ll come a sound of wings. Or you shall beWaked in the midnight murmuring, ‘It was she.’”22“No, no,” said Dymer, “not that way. I seemTo have slept for twenty years. Now—while I shakeOut of my eyes that dust of burdening dream,Now when the long clouds tremble ripe to breakAnd the far hills appear, when first I wake,Still blinking, struggling towards the world of men,And longing—would you turn me back again?23“Dreams? I have had my dream too long. I thoughtThe sun rose for my sake. I ran down blindAnd dancing to the abyss. Oh, Sir, I broughtBoy-laughter for a gift to Gods who findThe martyr’s soul too soft But that’s behind.I’m waking now. They broke me. All ends thusAlways—and we’re for them, not they for us.24“And she—she was no dream. It would be wasteTo seek her there, the living in that denOf lies.” The Master smiled. “You are in haste!For broken dreams the cure is, Dream againAnd deeper. If the waking world, and men,And nature marred your dream—so much the worseFor a crude world beneath its primal curse.”25—“Ah, but you do not know! Can dreams do this,Pluck out blood-guiltiness upon the shoreOf memory—and undo what’s done amiss,And bid the thing that has been be no more?”—“Sir, it is only dreams unlock that door,”He answered with a shrug. “What would you have?In dreams the thrice-proved coward can feel brave.26“In dreams the fool is free from scorning voices.Grey-headed whores are virgin there again.Out of the past dream brings long-buried choices,All in a moment snaps the tenfold chainThat life took years in forging. There the stainOf oldest sins—how do the good words go?—Though they were scarlet, shall be white as snow.”27Then, drawing near, when Dymer did not speak,“My little son,” said he, “your wrong and rightAre also dreams: fetters to bind the weakFaster to phantom earth and blear the sight.Wake into dreams, into the larger lightThat quenches these frail stars. They will not knowEarth’s bye-laws in the land to which you go.”28—“I must undo my sins,”—“An earthly law,And, even in earth, the child of yesterday.Throw down your human pity; cast your aweBehind you; put repentance all away.Home to the elder depths! for never theySupped with the stars who dared not slough behindThe last shred of earth’s holies from their mind.”29“Sir,” answered Dymer, “I would be contentTo drudge in earth, easing my heart’s disgrace,Counting a year’s long service lightly spentIf once at the year’s end I saw her faceSomewhere, being then most weary, in some placeI looked not for that joy—or heard her nearWhispering, ‘Yet courage, friend,’ for one more year.”30“Pish,” said the Master. “Will you have the truth?You think that virtue saves? Her people careFor the high heart and idle hours of youth;For these they will descend our lower air,Not virtue. You would nerve your arm and bearYour burden among men! Look to it, child:By virtue’s self vision can be defiled.31“You will grow full of pity and the love of men,And toil until the morning moisture driesOut of your heart. Then once, or once againIt may be you will find her: but your eyesSoon will be grown too dim. The task that liesNext to your hand will hide her. You shall beThe child of earth and gods you shall not see.”32Here suddenly he ceased. Tip-toes he went.A bolt clicked—then the window creaked ajar,And out of the wet world the hedgerow scentCame floating; and the dark without one starNor shape of trees nor sense of near and far,The undimensioned night and formless skiesWere there, and were the Master’s great allies.33“I am very old,” he said. “But if the timeWe suffered in our dreams were counting age,I have outlived the ocean and my primeIs with me to this day. Years cannot gaugeThe dream-life. In the turning of a page,Dozing above my book, I have lived throughMore ages than the lost Lemuria knew.34“I am not mortal. Were I doomed to dieThis hour, in this half-hour I interposeA thousand years of dream: and, those gone by,As many more, and in the last of those,Ten thousand—ever journeying towards a closeThat I shall never reach: for time shall flow,Wheel within wheel, interminably slow.35“And you will drink my cup and go your wayInto the valley of dreams. You have heard the call.Come hither and escape. Why should you stay?Earth is a sinking ship, a house whose wallIs tottering while you sweep; the roof will fallBefore the work is done. You cannot mend it.Patch as you will, at last the rot must end it.”36Then Dymer lifted up his heavy headLike Atlas on broad shoulders bearing upThe insufferable globe. “I had not said,”He mumbled, “Never said I’d taste the cup.What, is it this you give me? Must I sup?Oh lies, all lies.... Why did you kill the lark?Guide me the cup to lip ... it is so dark.”

The sun was high in heaven and Dymer stoodA bright speck on the endless mountain-side.Till, blossom after blossom, that rich moodFaded and truth rolled homeward, like a tideBefore whose edge the weak soul fled to hideIn vain, with ostrich head, through many a shapeOf coward fancy, whimpering for escape.

The sun was high in heaven and Dymer stood

A bright speck on the endless mountain-side.

Till, blossom after blossom, that rich mood

Faded and truth rolled homeward, like a tide

Before whose edge the weak soul fled to hide

In vain, with ostrich head, through many a shape

Of coward fancy, whimpering for escape.

But only for a moment; then his soulTook the full swell and heaved a dripping prowClear of the shattering wave-crest. He was whole.No veils should hide the truth, no truth should cowThe dear self-pitying heart “I’ll babble nowNo longer,” Dymer said. “I’m broken in.Pack up the dreams and let the life begin.”

But only for a moment; then his soul

Took the full swell and heaved a dripping prow

Clear of the shattering wave-crest. He was whole.

No veils should hide the truth, no truth should cow

The dear self-pitying heart “I’ll babble now

No longer,” Dymer said. “I’m broken in.

Pack up the dreams and let the life begin.”

With this he turned. “I must have food to-day,”He muttered. Then among the cloudless hillsBy winding tracks he sought the downward wayAnd followed the steep course of tumbling rills—Came to the glens the wakening mountain fillsIn springtime with the echoing splash and shockOf waters leaping cold from rock to rock.

With this he turned. “I must have food to-day,”

He muttered. Then among the cloudless hills

By winding tracks he sought the downward way

And followed the steep course of tumbling rills

—Came to the glens the wakening mountain fills

In springtime with the echoing splash and shock

Of waters leaping cold from rock to rock.

And still, it seemed, that lark with its refrainSang in the sky and wind was in his hairAnd hope at heart. Then once, and once again,He heard a gun fired off. It broke the airAs a stone breaks a pond, and everywhereThe dry crags echoed clear: and at the soundOnce a big bird rose whirring from the ground.

And still, it seemed, that lark with its refrain

Sang in the sky and wind was in his hair

And hope at heart. Then once, and once again,

He heard a gun fired off. It broke the air

As a stone breaks a pond, and everywhere

The dry crags echoed clear: and at the sound

Once a big bird rose whirring from the ground.

In half an hour he reached the level landAnd followed the field-paths and crossed the stiles,Then looked and saw, near by, on his left handAn old house, folded round with billowy pilesOf dark yew hedge. The moss was on the tiles,The pigeons in the yard, and in the towerA clock that had no hands and told no hour.

In half an hour he reached the level land

And followed the field-paths and crossed the stiles,

Then looked and saw, near by, on his left hand

An old house, folded round with billowy piles

Of dark yew hedge. The moss was on the tiles,

The pigeons in the yard, and in the tower

A clock that had no hands and told no hour.

He hastened. In warm waves the garden scentCame stronger at each stride. The mountain breezeWas gone. He reached the gates; then in he wentAnd seemed to lose the sky—such weight of treesHung overhead. He heard the noise of beesAnd saw, far off, in the blue shade betweenThe windless elms, one walking on the green.

He hastened. In warm waves the garden scent

Came stronger at each stride. The mountain breeze

Was gone. He reached the gates; then in he went

And seemed to lose the sky—such weight of trees

Hung overhead. He heard the noise of bees

And saw, far off, in the blue shade between

The windless elms, one walking on the green.

It was a mighty man whose beardless faceBeneath grey hair shone out so large and mildIt made a sort of moonlight in the place.A dreamy desperation, wistful-wild,Showed in his glance and gait: yet like a child,An Asian emperor’s only child, was heWith his grave looks and bright solemnity.

It was a mighty man whose beardless face

Beneath grey hair shone out so large and mild

It made a sort of moonlight in the place.

A dreamy desperation, wistful-wild,

Showed in his glance and gait: yet like a child,

An Asian emperor’s only child, was he

With his grave looks and bright solemnity.

And over him there hung the witching air,The wilful courtesy, of the days of old.The graces wherein idleness grows fair;And somewhat in his sauntering walk he rolledAnd toyed about his waist with seals of gold,Or stood to ponder often in mid-stride,Tilting his heavy head upon one side.

And over him there hung the witching air,

The wilful courtesy, of the days of old.

The graces wherein idleness grows fair;

And somewhat in his sauntering walk he rolled

And toyed about his waist with seals of gold,

Or stood to ponder often in mid-stride,

Tilting his heavy head upon one side.

When Dymer had called twice, he turned his eye:Then, coming out of silence (as a starAll in one moment slips into the skyOf evening, yet we feel it comes from far),He said, “Sir, you are welcome. Few there areThat come my way”: and in huge hands he pressedDymer’s cold hand and bade him in to rest.

When Dymer had called twice, he turned his eye:

Then, coming out of silence (as a star

All in one moment slips into the sky

Of evening, yet we feel it comes from far),

He said, “Sir, you are welcome. Few there are

That come my way”: and in huge hands he pressed

Dymer’s cold hand and bade him in to rest.

“How did you find this place out? Have you heardMy gun? It was but now I killed a lark.”“What Sir,” said Dymer, “shoot the singing bird?”“Sir,” said the man, “they sing from dawn till dark,And interrupt my dreams too long. But hark...Another? Did you hear no singing? No?It was my fancy, then ... pray, let it go.

“How did you find this place out? Have you heard

My gun? It was but now I killed a lark.”

“What Sir,” said Dymer, “shoot the singing bird?”

“Sir,” said the man, “they sing from dawn till dark,

And interrupt my dreams too long. But hark...

Another? Did you hear no singing? No?

It was my fancy, then ... pray, let it go.

“From here you see my garden’s only flaw.Stand here, Sir, at the dial.” Dymer stood.The Master pointed; then he looked and sawHow hedges and the funeral quietudeOf black trees fringed the garden like a wood,And only, in one place, one gap that showedThe blue side of the hills, the white hill-road.

“From here you see my garden’s only flaw.

Stand here, Sir, at the dial.” Dymer stood.

The Master pointed; then he looked and saw

How hedges and the funeral quietude

Of black trees fringed the garden like a wood,

And only, in one place, one gap that showed

The blue side of the hills, the white hill-road.

“I have planted fir and larch to fill the gap,”He said, “because this too makes war uponThe art of dream. But by some great mishapNothing I plant will grow there. We pass on....The sunshine of the afternoon is gone.Let us go in. It draws near time to sup—I hate the garden till the moon is up.”

“I have planted fir and larch to fill the gap,”

He said, “because this too makes war upon

The art of dream. But by some great mishap

Nothing I plant will grow there. We pass on....

The sunshine of the afternoon is gone.

Let us go in. It draws near time to sup

—I hate the garden till the moon is up.”

They passed from the hot lawn into the gloomAnd coolness of the porch: then, past a doorThat opened with no noise, into a roomWhere green leaves choked the window and the floorSank lower than the ground. A tattered storeOf brown books met the eye: a crystal ball:And masks with empty eyes along the wall.

They passed from the hot lawn into the gloom

And coolness of the porch: then, past a door

That opened with no noise, into a room

Where green leaves choked the window and the floor

Sank lower than the ground. A tattered store

Of brown books met the eye: a crystal ball:

And masks with empty eyes along the wall.

Then Dymer sat, but knew not how nor where,And supper was set out before these two,—He saw not how—with silver old and rareBut tarnished. And he ate and never knewWhat meats they were. At every bite he grewMore drowsy and let slide his crumbling will.The Master at his side was talking still.

Then Dymer sat, but knew not how nor where,

And supper was set out before these two,

—He saw not how—with silver old and rare

But tarnished. And he ate and never knew

What meats they were. At every bite he grew

More drowsy and let slide his crumbling will.

The Master at his side was talking still.

And all his talk was tales of magic wordsAnd of the nations in the clouds above,Astral and aerish tribes who fish for birdsWith angles. And by history he could proveHow chosen spirits from earth had won their love,As Arthur, or Usheen: and to their isleWent Helen for the sake of a Greek smile.

And all his talk was tales of magic words

And of the nations in the clouds above,

Astral and aerish tribes who fish for birds

With angles. And by history he could prove

How chosen spirits from earth had won their love,

As Arthur, or Usheen: and to their isle

Went Helen for the sake of a Greek smile.

And ever in his talk he mustered wellHis texts and strewed old authors round the way,“Thus Wierus writes,” and “Thus the Hermetics tell,”“This was Agrippa’s view,” and “Others sayWith Cardan,” till he had stolen quite awayDymer’s dull wits and softly drawn apartThe ivory gates of hope that change the heart.

And ever in his talk he mustered well

His texts and strewed old authors round the way,

“Thus Wierus writes,” and “Thus the Hermetics tell,”

“This was Agrippa’s view,” and “Others say

With Cardan,” till he had stolen quite away

Dymer’s dull wits and softly drawn apart

The ivory gates of hope that change the heart.

Dymer was talking now. Now Dymer toldOf his own love and losing, drowsily.The Master leaned towards him, “Was it cold,This spirit, to the touch?”—“No, Sir, not she,”Said Dymer. And his host: “Why this must beAethereal, not aereal! Oh my soul,Be still ... but wait. Tell on, Sir, tell the whole.”

Dymer was talking now. Now Dymer told

Of his own love and losing, drowsily.

The Master leaned towards him, “Was it cold,

This spirit, to the touch?”—“No, Sir, not she,”

Said Dymer. And his host: “Why this must be

Aethereal, not aereal! Oh my soul,

Be still ... but wait. Tell on, Sir, tell the whole.”

Then Dymer told him of the beldam too,The old, old, matriarchal dreadfulness.Over the Master’s face a shadow drew,He shifted in his chair and “Yes” and “Yes,”He murmured twice. “I never looked for less!Always the same ... that frightful woman shapeBesets the dream-way and the soul’s escape.”

Then Dymer told him of the beldam too,

The old, old, matriarchal dreadfulness.

Over the Master’s face a shadow drew,

He shifted in his chair and “Yes” and “Yes,”

He murmured twice. “I never looked for less!

Always the same ... that frightful woman shape

Besets the dream-way and the soul’s escape.”

But now when Dymer made to talk of Bran,A huge indifference fell upon his host,Patient and wandering-eyed. Then he began,“Forgive me. You are young. What helps us mostIs to find out again that heavenly ghostWho loves you. For she was a ghost, and youIn that place where you met were ghostly too.

But now when Dymer made to talk of Bran,

A huge indifference fell upon his host,

Patient and wandering-eyed. Then he began,

“Forgive me. You are young. What helps us most

Is to find out again that heavenly ghost

Who loves you. For she was a ghost, and you

In that place where you met were ghostly too.

“Listen! for I can launch you on the streamWill roll you to the shores of her own land....I could be sworn you never learned to dream,But every night you take with careless handWhat chance may bring? I’ll teach you to commandThe comings and the goings of your spiritThrough all that borderland which dreams inherit.

“Listen! for I can launch you on the stream

Will roll you to the shores of her own land....

I could be sworn you never learned to dream,

But every night you take with careless hand

What chance may bring? I’ll teach you to command

The comings and the goings of your spirit

Through all that borderland which dreams inherit.

“You shall have hauntings suddenly. And often,When you forget, when least you think of her(For so you shall forget) a light will softenOver the evening woods. And in the stirOf morning dreams (oh, I will teach you, Sir)There’ll come a sound of wings. Or you shall beWaked in the midnight murmuring, ‘It was she.’”

“You shall have hauntings suddenly. And often,

When you forget, when least you think of her

(For so you shall forget) a light will soften

Over the evening woods. And in the stir

Of morning dreams (oh, I will teach you, Sir)

There’ll come a sound of wings. Or you shall be

Waked in the midnight murmuring, ‘It was she.’”

“No, no,” said Dymer, “not that way. I seemTo have slept for twenty years. Now—while I shakeOut of my eyes that dust of burdening dream,Now when the long clouds tremble ripe to breakAnd the far hills appear, when first I wake,Still blinking, struggling towards the world of men,And longing—would you turn me back again?

“No, no,” said Dymer, “not that way. I seem

To have slept for twenty years. Now—while I shake

Out of my eyes that dust of burdening dream,

Now when the long clouds tremble ripe to break

And the far hills appear, when first I wake,

Still blinking, struggling towards the world of men,

And longing—would you turn me back again?

“Dreams? I have had my dream too long. I thoughtThe sun rose for my sake. I ran down blindAnd dancing to the abyss. Oh, Sir, I broughtBoy-laughter for a gift to Gods who findThe martyr’s soul too soft But that’s behind.I’m waking now. They broke me. All ends thusAlways—and we’re for them, not they for us.

“Dreams? I have had my dream too long. I thought

The sun rose for my sake. I ran down blind

And dancing to the abyss. Oh, Sir, I brought

Boy-laughter for a gift to Gods who find

The martyr’s soul too soft But that’s behind.

I’m waking now. They broke me. All ends thus

Always—and we’re for them, not they for us.

“And she—she was no dream. It would be wasteTo seek her there, the living in that denOf lies.” The Master smiled. “You are in haste!For broken dreams the cure is, Dream againAnd deeper. If the waking world, and men,And nature marred your dream—so much the worseFor a crude world beneath its primal curse.”

“And she—she was no dream. It would be waste

To seek her there, the living in that den

Of lies.” The Master smiled. “You are in haste!

For broken dreams the cure is, Dream again

And deeper. If the waking world, and men,

And nature marred your dream—so much the worse

For a crude world beneath its primal curse.”

—“Ah, but you do not know! Can dreams do this,Pluck out blood-guiltiness upon the shoreOf memory—and undo what’s done amiss,And bid the thing that has been be no more?”—“Sir, it is only dreams unlock that door,”He answered with a shrug. “What would you have?In dreams the thrice-proved coward can feel brave.

—“Ah, but you do not know! Can dreams do this,

Pluck out blood-guiltiness upon the shore

Of memory—and undo what’s done amiss,

And bid the thing that has been be no more?”

—“Sir, it is only dreams unlock that door,”

He answered with a shrug. “What would you have?

In dreams the thrice-proved coward can feel brave.

“In dreams the fool is free from scorning voices.Grey-headed whores are virgin there again.Out of the past dream brings long-buried choices,All in a moment snaps the tenfold chainThat life took years in forging. There the stainOf oldest sins—how do the good words go?—Though they were scarlet, shall be white as snow.”

“In dreams the fool is free from scorning voices.

Grey-headed whores are virgin there again.

Out of the past dream brings long-buried choices,

All in a moment snaps the tenfold chain

That life took years in forging. There the stain

Of oldest sins—how do the good words go?—

Though they were scarlet, shall be white as snow.”

Then, drawing near, when Dymer did not speak,“My little son,” said he, “your wrong and rightAre also dreams: fetters to bind the weakFaster to phantom earth and blear the sight.Wake into dreams, into the larger lightThat quenches these frail stars. They will not knowEarth’s bye-laws in the land to which you go.”

Then, drawing near, when Dymer did not speak,

“My little son,” said he, “your wrong and right

Are also dreams: fetters to bind the weak

Faster to phantom earth and blear the sight.

Wake into dreams, into the larger light

That quenches these frail stars. They will not know

Earth’s bye-laws in the land to which you go.”

—“I must undo my sins,”—“An earthly law,And, even in earth, the child of yesterday.Throw down your human pity; cast your aweBehind you; put repentance all away.Home to the elder depths! for never theySupped with the stars who dared not slough behindThe last shred of earth’s holies from their mind.”

—“I must undo my sins,”—“An earthly law,

And, even in earth, the child of yesterday.

Throw down your human pity; cast your awe

Behind you; put repentance all away.

Home to the elder depths! for never they

Supped with the stars who dared not slough behind

The last shred of earth’s holies from their mind.”

“Sir,” answered Dymer, “I would be contentTo drudge in earth, easing my heart’s disgrace,Counting a year’s long service lightly spentIf once at the year’s end I saw her faceSomewhere, being then most weary, in some placeI looked not for that joy—or heard her nearWhispering, ‘Yet courage, friend,’ for one more year.”

“Sir,” answered Dymer, “I would be content

To drudge in earth, easing my heart’s disgrace,

Counting a year’s long service lightly spent

If once at the year’s end I saw her face

Somewhere, being then most weary, in some place

I looked not for that joy—or heard her near

Whispering, ‘Yet courage, friend,’ for one more year.”

“Pish,” said the Master. “Will you have the truth?You think that virtue saves? Her people careFor the high heart and idle hours of youth;For these they will descend our lower air,Not virtue. You would nerve your arm and bearYour burden among men! Look to it, child:By virtue’s self vision can be defiled.

“Pish,” said the Master. “Will you have the truth?

You think that virtue saves? Her people care

For the high heart and idle hours of youth;

For these they will descend our lower air,

Not virtue. You would nerve your arm and bear

Your burden among men! Look to it, child:

By virtue’s self vision can be defiled.

“You will grow full of pity and the love of men,And toil until the morning moisture driesOut of your heart. Then once, or once againIt may be you will find her: but your eyesSoon will be grown too dim. The task that liesNext to your hand will hide her. You shall beThe child of earth and gods you shall not see.”

“You will grow full of pity and the love of men,

And toil until the morning moisture dries

Out of your heart. Then once, or once again

It may be you will find her: but your eyes

Soon will be grown too dim. The task that lies

Next to your hand will hide her. You shall be

The child of earth and gods you shall not see.”

Here suddenly he ceased. Tip-toes he went.A bolt clicked—then the window creaked ajar,And out of the wet world the hedgerow scentCame floating; and the dark without one starNor shape of trees nor sense of near and far,The undimensioned night and formless skiesWere there, and were the Master’s great allies.

Here suddenly he ceased. Tip-toes he went.

A bolt clicked—then the window creaked ajar,

And out of the wet world the hedgerow scent

Came floating; and the dark without one star

Nor shape of trees nor sense of near and far,

The undimensioned night and formless skies

Were there, and were the Master’s great allies.

“I am very old,” he said. “But if the timeWe suffered in our dreams were counting age,I have outlived the ocean and my primeIs with me to this day. Years cannot gaugeThe dream-life. In the turning of a page,Dozing above my book, I have lived throughMore ages than the lost Lemuria knew.

“I am very old,” he said. “But if the time

We suffered in our dreams were counting age,

I have outlived the ocean and my prime

Is with me to this day. Years cannot gauge

The dream-life. In the turning of a page,

Dozing above my book, I have lived through

More ages than the lost Lemuria knew.

“I am not mortal. Were I doomed to dieThis hour, in this half-hour I interposeA thousand years of dream: and, those gone by,As many more, and in the last of those,Ten thousand—ever journeying towards a closeThat I shall never reach: for time shall flow,Wheel within wheel, interminably slow.

“I am not mortal. Were I doomed to die

This hour, in this half-hour I interpose

A thousand years of dream: and, those gone by,

As many more, and in the last of those,

Ten thousand—ever journeying towards a close

That I shall never reach: for time shall flow,

Wheel within wheel, interminably slow.

“And you will drink my cup and go your wayInto the valley of dreams. You have heard the call.Come hither and escape. Why should you stay?Earth is a sinking ship, a house whose wallIs tottering while you sweep; the roof will fallBefore the work is done. You cannot mend it.Patch as you will, at last the rot must end it.”

“And you will drink my cup and go your way

Into the valley of dreams. You have heard the call.

Come hither and escape. Why should you stay?

Earth is a sinking ship, a house whose wall

Is tottering while you sweep; the roof will fall

Before the work is done. You cannot mend it.

Patch as you will, at last the rot must end it.”

Then Dymer lifted up his heavy headLike Atlas on broad shoulders bearing upThe insufferable globe. “I had not said,”He mumbled, “Never said I’d taste the cup.What, is it this you give me? Must I sup?Oh lies, all lies.... Why did you kill the lark?Guide me the cup to lip ... it is so dark.”

Then Dymer lifted up his heavy head

Like Atlas on broad shoulders bearing up

The insufferable globe. “I had not said,”

He mumbled, “Never said I’d taste the cup.

What, is it this you give me? Must I sup?

Oh lies, all lies.... Why did you kill the lark?

Guide me the cup to lip ... it is so dark.”

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