IN the lone silence of my later nights, The dreams I dreamt in youth come back to me; Not a returning presence that affrights, -- Nor a mere play of hard-forced memory, -- But there is no reality which seems To me so real as those repeated dreams. I find, in such revivals of old joys, An earnest of the unity that reigns In this our inner life, an equipoise To all our vacillating outward pains; A constant well, from which our souls updraw Continuous Truth and undisturbed Law. If few to us, and far between, appear The favoured hours at which reverberate These spiritual echoes, that from sphere To sphere are sped by Power compassionate, In Life's short pass, how rarely are we found Just at the point where strikes the heavenly sound! But unlike echoes among natural things, That live in faintness and are breathed away, -- To ends most distant their reflection brings Glories and bliss impervious to decay, Fresh and refreshing as when first they come From the Eternal Thought, which is their home. As in that World of Dream, whose mystic shades Are cast by still more mystic substances, We ofttimes have an unreflecting sense, A silent consciousness, of some things past, So clear, that we can wholly comprehend Others of which they are a part, and even Continue them in action, though no stretch Of after-memory can recognise That we have had experience of those things, Or sleeping or awake; -- Thus in the dream, Our Universal Dream, of Mortal Life, The incidents of an anterior Dream, Or, it may be, Existence (for the Sun Of Being, seen thro' the deep dreamy mist, Itself is dream-like), noiselessly intrude Into the daily flow of earthly things; Instincts of Good, -- immediate sympathies, Places come at by chance, that claim at once An old acquaintance, -- single, random, looks, That bare a stranger's bosom to our eyes; We @3know@1 these things are so, we ask not why, But act and follow as the Dream goes on. Happy the many to whom Life displays Only the flaunting of its Tulip-flower, Whose minds have never bent to scrutinize Into the maddening riddle of the Root, -- Shell within shell, -- dream folded over dream, -- No heart, no kernel of essential Being, For us to find, and feel that Truth is there! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING AUTUMN (1) by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI AGAINST INDIFFERENCE by CHARLES WEBBE A DEDICATION by EDMUND JOHN ARMSTRONG MY LITTLE TASK by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON TO A SPIRIT (1) by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN NEW ENGLAND'S GROWTH by WILLIAM BRADFORD EPITAPH FOR JOSEPH BLACKETT, LATE POET AND SHOEMAKER by GEORGE GORDON BYRON |