The Unfinished Dream

Rare-sweet the air in that unimagined country -
    My spirit had wandered far
From its weary body close-enwrapt in slumber
    Where its home and earth-friends are;
A milk-like air - and of light all abundance;
    And there a river clear
Painting the scene like a picture on its bosom,
    Green foliage drifting near.

No sign of life I saw, as I pressed onward,
    Fish, nor beast, nor bird,
Till I came to a hill clothed in flowers to its summit,
    Then shrill small voices I heard.

And I saw from concealment a company of elf-folk
    With faces strangely fair,
Talking their unearthly scattered talk together,
    A bind of green-grasses in their hair,

Marvellously gentle, feater far than children,
    In gesture, mien and speech,
Hastening onward in translucent shafts of sunshine,
    And gossiping each with each.

Straw-light their locks, on neck and shoulder falling,
    Faint of almond the silks they wore,
Spun not of worm, but as if inwoven of moonbeams
    And foam on rock-bound shore;

Like lank-legged grasshoppers in June-tide meadows,
    Amalillios of the day,
Hungrily gazed upon by me - a stranger,
    In unknown regions astray.

Yet, happy beyond words, I marked their sunlit faces,
    Stealing soft enchantment from their eyes,
Tears in my own confusing their small image,
    Harkening their bird-like cries.

They passed me, unseeing, a waft of flocking linnets;
    Sadly I fared on my way;
And came in my dream to a dreamlike habitation,
    Close-shut, festooned and grey.

Pausing, I gazed at the porch dust-still, vine-wreathèd,
    Worn the stone steps thereto,
Mute hung its bell, whence a stony head looked downward,
    Grey 'gainst the sky's pale-blue -

Strange to me: strange....