THE IDEAL.
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THE IDEAL.
“How the shadow the Ideal throws before it darkens the actual.”—Zanoni.
“Ta vie est un sommeil, l’amour en est le rêve.”
A sad, sweet dream; it fell upon my soul
When song and thought first woke their echoes there,
Swaying my spirit to its wild control,
And with the shadow of a fond despair
Darkening the fountain of my young life’s stream—
It haunts me still, and yet I know ’tis but a dream.
When song and thought first woke their echoes there,
Swaying my spirit to its wild control,
And with the shadow of a fond despair
Darkening the fountain of my young life’s stream—
It haunts me still, and yet I know ’tis but a dream.
Whence art thou, shadowy presence, that canst hide
From my charmed sight the glorious things of earth?
A mirage o’er life’s desert dost thou glide?
Or, with those glimmerings of a former birth,
A “trailing cloud of glory,” hast thou come
From some bright world afar, our unremembered home?
From my charmed sight the glorious things of earth?
A mirage o’er life’s desert dost thou glide?
Or, with those glimmerings of a former birth,
A “trailing cloud of glory,” hast thou come
From some bright world afar, our unremembered home?
