A Song Of Dreams

A voice came to me from the night, and said,         What profit hast thou in thy dreaming         Of the years that are set         And the years yet unrisen?         Hast thou found them tillable lands?         Is there fruit that thou canst pluck therein,         Or any harvest to be mown?         Shalt thou dig aught of gold from the mines of the past,         Or trade for merchandise         In the years where all is rotten?         Are they a sea that will bring thee to any shore,         Or a desert that vergeth upon aught but the waste?         Shalt thou drink from the springs that are emptied,         Or find sustenance in shadows?         What value hath the future given thee?         Is there aught in the days yet dark         That thou canst hold with thy hands?         Are they a fortress         That will afford thee protection         Against the swords of the world?         Is there justice in them         To balance the world's inequity,         Or benefit to outweigh its loss?         Then spake I in answer, saying,         Of my dreams I have made a road,         And my soul goeth out thereon         To that unto which no eye hath opened,         Nor ear become keen to hearken -         To the glories that are shut past all access         Of the keys of sense;         Whose walls are hidden by the air,         And whose doors are concealed with clarity.         And the road is travelled of secret things,         Coming to me from far -         Of bodiless powers,         And beauties without colour or form         Holden by any loveliness seen of earth.         And of my dreams have I builded an inn         Wherein these are as guests.         And unto it come the dead         For a little rest and refuge         From the hollowness of the unharvestable wind,         And the burden of too great space.         The fields of the past are not void to me,         Who harvest with the scythe of thought;         Nor the orchards of future years unfruitful         To the hands of visionings.         I have retrieved from the darkness         The years and the things that were lost,         And they are held in the light of my dreams,         With the spirits of years unborn,         And of things yet bodiless.         As in an hospitable house,         They shall live while the dreams abide.