 | The Way of the Winepress |  |
DREAM AND VISION.
BUT few see visions; many men dream dreams.The bird of vision stoopeth from on high
And to its home, the spheres beyond the sky,
Bearing it off, by Paradisal streams
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Pastures the soul, where I no more is I
And there no question is of How or Why,
No thought of Life and Death, of Is and Seems.
But dreams of the earth earthy are and spring
From the strained sense, upon whose every string,
Stretched to the utmost, thought and memory play
And make fantastic melodies, that rise
From the tense nerves and the retentive eyes
And mostly are forgotten with the day.
| The Way of the Winepress | |