"Who took a wife, who reared his race, Whose wrinkles gathered on his face, Whose troubles number with his days: "A life of nothings, nothing-worth, From that first nothing ere his birth To that last nothing under earth!” "These words," I said, "are like the rest, No certain clearness, but at best A vague suspicion of the breast: "But if I grant, thou might'st defend The thesis which thy words intendThat to begin implies to end; "Yet how should I for certain hold, Because my memory is so cold, That I first was in human mould ? "I cannot make this matter plain, But I would shoot, howe'er in vain, A random arrow from the brain. "It may be that no life is found, Which only to one engine bound Falls off, but cycles always round. "As old mythologies relate, Some draught of Lethe might await "As here we find in trances, men "So might we, if our state were such As one before, remember much, For those two likes might meet and touch. "But, if I lapsed from nobler place, "Some vague emotion of delight In gazing up an Alpine height, Some yearning toward the lamps of night. "Or if through lower lives I came— Though all experience past became Consolidate in mind and frame "I might forget my weaker lot For is not our first year forgot? The haunts of memory echo not. "And men, whose reason long was blind, From cells of madness unconfined, Oft lose whole years of darker mind. "Much more, if first I floated free, As naked essence, must I be Incompetent of memory : "For memory dealing but with time, And he with matter, could she climb Beyond her own material prime? “Moreover, something is or seems, That touches me with mystic gleams, Like glimpses of forgotten dreams— "Of something felt, like something here; Of something done, I know not where; Such as no language may declare.” The still voice laughed. "Not with thy dreams. Thy pain is a reality." "I talk," said he, Suffice it thee "But thou," said I, "hast missed thy mark, Who sought'st to wreck my mortal ark, By making all the horizon dark. Why not set forth, if I should do This rashness, that which might ensue With this old soul in organs new? "Whatever crazy sorrow saith, No life that breathes with human breath "'Tis life, whereof our nerves are scant, O life, not death, for which we pant; More life, and fuller, that I want." I ceased, and sat as one forlorn. Then said the voice, in quiet scorn, "Behold, it is the Sabbath morn.” And I arose, and I released The casement, and the light increased Like softened airs that blowing steal, On to God's house the people prest: One walked between his wife and child, The prudent partner of his blood And in their double love secure, These three made unity so sweet, I blest them, and they wandered on: A second voice was at mine ear, As from some blissful neighborhood, "I see the end, and know the good." A little hint to solace woe, Like an Æolian harp that wakes Far thought with music that it makes: Such seemed the whisper at my side: "What is it thou knowest, sweet voice?" I cried. "A hidden hope," the voice replied: So heavenly-toned, that in that hour To feel, although no tongue can prove, And forth into the fields I went, I wondered at the bounteous hours, I wondered, while I paced along: So variously seemed all things wrought, And wherefore rather I made choice THE DAY-DREAM. PROLOGUE. O, LADY FLORA, let me speak As by the lattice you reclined, I went through many wayward moods To see you dreaming-and, behind, A summer crisp with shining woods. And I too dreamed, until at last Across my fancy, brooding warm, The reflex of a legend past, And loosely settled into form. |