 | From the Hills of Dream |  |
39
The Hollow Land.
Through the Hollow Land I wandered
On the silent wings of Sleep:
And the darkness was about me
As the furtive things that creep
From the shadow of the forest
Round the Shadow still more deep.
On the silent wings of Sleep:
And the darkness was about me
As the furtive things that creep
From the shadow of the forest
Round the Shadow still more deep.
On a dark wing I was lifted
And was borne beyond the Gate,
Past the Portals of two Shadows
Which are the self-same Fate,—
Sleep, clad in dusk, and dreaming,
Death, clad in night, her Mate.
And was borne beyond the Gate,
Past the Portals of two Shadows
Which are the self-same Fate,—
Sleep, clad in dusk, and dreaming,
Death, clad in night, her Mate.
And so thence across the valley
Where unborn things agleam
Shine wanly athwart the gloaming
Beside each undreamed dream,
Till the Hollow Land was entered
By a silent stream.
Where unborn things agleam
Shine wanly athwart the gloaming
Beside each undreamed dream,
Till the Hollow Land was entered
By a silent stream.
The River of Oblivion
It was that wended there,
Till lost in the immensity
Of that unwinnowed air:
Yet onward, and as for ever,
My soul was borne there.
It was that wended there,
Till lost in the immensity
Of that unwinnowed air:
Yet onward, and as for ever,
My soul was borne there.
O soul, that thing which was uttered,
O soul, that thing which thou saw,
What memory hast thou of either
Though thrilling still with the awe—
Not more than of harvest lingers
In wind-whirled straw!
O soul, that thing which thou saw,
What memory hast thou of either
Though thrilling still with the awe—
Not more than of harvest lingers
In wind-whirled straw!
40
Yet, soul, in the shadowy silence
That clothes thee round about,
Thou knowest thou viewed vast armies
In fierce bewildered rout,
And, 'mid the seething clamour,
Heard, as a blast, thy shout!
That clothes thee round about,
Thou knowest thou viewed vast armies
In fierce bewildered rout,
And, 'mid the seething clamour,
Heard, as a blast, thy shout!
O soul, wast thou a victor
Or led'st thou a failing host:
Or were thy banners flying
Along a dismal coast:
Wert thou crown'd with life, O spirit,
Or crown'd with death, poor ghost?
Or led'st thou a failing host:
Or were thy banners flying
Along a dismal coast:
Wert thou crown'd with life, O spirit,
Or crown'd with death, poor ghost?
| From the Hills of Dream | |