SEA DREAMS.
109
‘Then I fixt
My wistful eyes on two fair images,
Both crown’d with stars and high among the stars,—
The Virgin Mother standing with her child
High up on one of those dark minster-fronts—
Till she began to totter, and the child
Clung to the mother, and sent out a cry
Which mixt with little Margaret’s, and I woke,
And my dream awed me:—well—but what are dreams?
Yours came but from the breaking of a glass,
And mine but from the crying of a child.’
My wistful eyes on two fair images,
Both crown’d with stars and high among the stars,—
The Virgin Mother standing with her child
High up on one of those dark minster-fronts—
Till she began to totter, and the child
Clung to the mother, and sent out a cry
Which mixt with little Margaret’s, and I woke,
And my dream awed me:—well—but what are dreams?
Yours came but from the breaking of a glass,
And mine but from the crying of a child.’
‘Child? No!’ said he, ‘but this tide’s roar, and his,
Our Boanerges with his threats of doom,
And loud-lung’d Antibabylonianisms
(Altho’ I grant but little music there)
Went both to make your dream: but if there were
A music harmonizing our wild cries,
Sphere-music such as that you dream’d about,
Why, that would make our passions far too like
Our Boanerges with his threats of doom,
And loud-lung’d Antibabylonianisms
(Altho’ I grant but little music there)
Went both to make your dream: but if there were
A music harmonizing our wild cries,
Sphere-music such as that you dream’d about,
Why, that would make our passions far too like
