What means this dreamless apathy of sleep? --A mist steals over the dim lake, the shore, Until my closing eyes forget to weep-- Oh, let me wake no more!
Ah! what would youth be doing To hoist his crimson sails, To leave the wood-doves cooing, The song of nightingales; To leave this woodland quiet For murmuring winds at strife, For waves that foam and riot About the seas of life?
From still bays silver sanded Wild currents hasten down, To rocks where ships are stranded And eddies where men drown. Far out, by hills surrounded, Is the golden haven gate, And all beyond unbounded Are shoreless seas of fate.
They steer for those far highlands Across the summer tide, And dream of fairy islands Upon the further side. They only see the sunlight, The flashing of gold bars, But the other side is moonlight And glimmer of pale stars.
They will not heed the warning Blown back on every wind, For hope is born with morning, The secret is behind. Whirled through in wild confusion They pass the narrow strait, To the sea of disillusion That lies beyond the gate.
He had the poet's eyes, --Sing to him sleeping,-- Sweet grace of low replies, --Why are we weeping?
He had the gentle ways, --Fair dreams befall him!-- Beauty through all his days, --Then why recall him?--
That which in him was fair Still shall be ours: Yet, yet my heart lies there Under the flowers.
Through yonder windows stained and old Four level rays of red and gold Strike down the twilight dim, Four lifted heads are aureoled Of the sculptured cherubim, And soft like sounds on faint winds blown Of voices dying far away, The organ's dreamy undertone, The murmur while they pray; And I sit here alone alone And have no word to say; Cling closer shadows, darker yet, And heart be happy to forget.
And now, the mystic silence--and they kneel A young priest lifts a star of gold,-- And then the sudden organ peal! Ave and Ave! and the music rolled Along the carven wonder of the choir Thrilled canopy and spire, Up till the echoes mingled with the song; And now a boy's flute note that rings Shrill sweet and long, Ave and Ave, louder and more loud Rises the strain he sings, Upon the angel's wings! Right up to God!
And you that sit there in the lowliest place, With lips that hardly dare to move, You with the old sad furrowed face Dream on your dream of love! For you, glide down the music's swell The folding arms of peace, For me wild thoughts, I dare not tell Desires that never cease. For you the calm, the angel's breast Whose dim foreknowledge is at rest; For me the beat of broken wings The old unanswered questionings.