THE UNFINISHED DREAM
RARE-SWEET the air in that unimagined country—My spirit had wandered farFrom its weary body close-enwrapt in slumberWhere its home and earth-friends are;A milk-like air—and of light all abundance;And there a river clearPainting the scene like a picture on its bosom,Green foliage drifting near.No sign of life I saw, as I pressed onward,Fish, nor beast, nor bird,Till I came to a hill clothed in flowers to its summit,Then shrill small voices I heard.And I saw from concealment a company of elf-folkWith faces strangely fair,Talking their unearthly scattered talk together,A bind of green-grasses in their hair,Marvellously gentle, feater far than children,In gesture, mien and speech,Hastening onward in translucent shafts of sunshine,And gossiping each with each.Straw-light their locks, on neck and shoulder falling,Faint of almond the silks they wore,Spun not of worm, but as if inwoven of moonbeamsAnd foam on rock-bound shore;Like lank-legged grasshoppers in June-tide meadows,Amalillios of the day,Hungrily gazed upon by me—a stranger,In unknown regions astray.Yet, happy beyond words, I marked their sunlit faces,Stealing soft enchantment from their eyes,Tears in my own confusing their small image,Harkening their bead-like cries.They passed me, unseeing, a waft of flocking linnets;Sadly I fared on my way;And came in my dream to a dreamlike habitation,Close-shut, festooned and grey.Pausing, I gazed at the porch dust-still, vine-wreathèd,Worn the stone steps thereto,Mute hung its bell, whence a stony head looked downward,Grey 'gainst the sky's pale-blue—Strange to me: strange....
RARE-SWEET the air in that unimagined country—My spirit had wandered farFrom its weary body close-enwrapt in slumberWhere its home and earth-friends are;A milk-like air—and of light all abundance;And there a river clearPainting the scene like a picture on its bosom,Green foliage drifting near.No sign of life I saw, as I pressed onward,Fish, nor beast, nor bird,Till I came to a hill clothed in flowers to its summit,Then shrill small voices I heard.And I saw from concealment a company of elf-folkWith faces strangely fair,Talking their unearthly scattered talk together,A bind of green-grasses in their hair,Marvellously gentle, feater far than children,In gesture, mien and speech,Hastening onward in translucent shafts of sunshine,And gossiping each with each.Straw-light their locks, on neck and shoulder falling,Faint of almond the silks they wore,Spun not of worm, but as if inwoven of moonbeamsAnd foam on rock-bound shore;Like lank-legged grasshoppers in June-tide meadows,Amalillios of the day,Hungrily gazed upon by me—a stranger,In unknown regions astray.Yet, happy beyond words, I marked their sunlit faces,Stealing soft enchantment from their eyes,Tears in my own confusing their small image,Harkening their bead-like cries.They passed me, unseeing, a waft of flocking linnets;Sadly I fared on my way;And came in my dream to a dreamlike habitation,Close-shut, festooned and grey.Pausing, I gazed at the porch dust-still, vine-wreathèd,Worn the stone steps thereto,Mute hung its bell, whence a stony head looked downward,Grey 'gainst the sky's pale-blue—Strange to me: strange....
RARE-SWEET the air in that unimagined country—My spirit had wandered farFrom its weary body close-enwrapt in slumberWhere its home and earth-friends are;
RARE-SWEET the air in that unimagined country—
My spirit had wandered far
From its weary body close-enwrapt in slumber
Where its home and earth-friends are;
A milk-like air—and of light all abundance;And there a river clearPainting the scene like a picture on its bosom,Green foliage drifting near.
A milk-like air—and of light all abundance;
And there a river clear
Painting the scene like a picture on its bosom,
Green foliage drifting near.
No sign of life I saw, as I pressed onward,Fish, nor beast, nor bird,Till I came to a hill clothed in flowers to its summit,Then shrill small voices I heard.
No sign of life I saw, as I pressed onward,
Fish, nor beast, nor bird,
Till I came to a hill clothed in flowers to its summit,
Then shrill small voices I heard.
And I saw from concealment a company of elf-folkWith faces strangely fair,Talking their unearthly scattered talk together,A bind of green-grasses in their hair,
And I saw from concealment a company of elf-folk
With faces strangely fair,
Talking their unearthly scattered talk together,
A bind of green-grasses in their hair,
Marvellously gentle, feater far than children,In gesture, mien and speech,Hastening onward in translucent shafts of sunshine,And gossiping each with each.
Marvellously gentle, feater far than children,
In gesture, mien and speech,
Hastening onward in translucent shafts of sunshine,
And gossiping each with each.
Straw-light their locks, on neck and shoulder falling,Faint of almond the silks they wore,Spun not of worm, but as if inwoven of moonbeamsAnd foam on rock-bound shore;
Straw-light their locks, on neck and shoulder falling,
Faint of almond the silks they wore,
Spun not of worm, but as if inwoven of moonbeams
And foam on rock-bound shore;
Like lank-legged grasshoppers in June-tide meadows,Amalillios of the day,Hungrily gazed upon by me—a stranger,In unknown regions astray.
Like lank-legged grasshoppers in June-tide meadows,
Amalillios of the day,
Hungrily gazed upon by me—a stranger,
In unknown regions astray.
Yet, happy beyond words, I marked their sunlit faces,Stealing soft enchantment from their eyes,Tears in my own confusing their small image,Harkening their bead-like cries.
Yet, happy beyond words, I marked their sunlit faces,
Stealing soft enchantment from their eyes,
Tears in my own confusing their small image,
Harkening their bead-like cries.
They passed me, unseeing, a waft of flocking linnets;Sadly I fared on my way;And came in my dream to a dreamlike habitation,Close-shut, festooned and grey.
They passed me, unseeing, a waft of flocking linnets;
Sadly I fared on my way;
And came in my dream to a dreamlike habitation,
Close-shut, festooned and grey.
Pausing, I gazed at the porch dust-still, vine-wreathèd,Worn the stone steps thereto,Mute hung its bell, whence a stony head looked downward,Grey 'gainst the sky's pale-blue—
Pausing, I gazed at the porch dust-still, vine-wreathèd,
Worn the stone steps thereto,
Mute hung its bell, whence a stony head looked downward,
Grey 'gainst the sky's pale-blue—
Strange to me: strange....
Strange to me: strange....