Irene's Dream
Of any fairy presence save your own?
When have you seen these elves with bodily eyes?
Irene. Not seen . . . . but felt. You do not understand
How one may have a conscious certainty
Of what one has not seen. But I have seen,
Or almost seen, ofttime e'en in broad noon,
In the wide halls and chambers of the house,
A flitting of swift shadows on the walls,
Just glimpsed and gone, giving a consciousness
Of some invisible companionship.
And on this very lawn, on summer nights,
A whole new world awakes, and is astir.
Oft as the moon falls bright upon the sward,
These tall tree forms in solemn concourse met—
Slim darksome spire and lofty rounded tower
Seem, each with his black shadow at his foot,
Like creatures conscious of a secret doom;
All through the solemn silence on the watch
To hear the wild talk of the nightingale,
As with a silver shock it suddenly
Pierces the silence from the sombre wood,
And all the garden rings with a new life;
And all my chamber, as I listening lie,
Thrills with the startling outburst that proclaims,
In syllables as distinct as yours and mine,
Things I could never tell to you again
When have you seen these elves with bodily eyes?
Irene. Not seen . . . . but felt. You do not understand
How one may have a conscious certainty
Of what one has not seen. But I have seen,
Or almost seen, ofttime e'en in broad noon,
In the wide halls and chambers of the house,
A flitting of swift shadows on the walls,
Just glimpsed and gone, giving a consciousness
Of some invisible companionship.
And on this very lawn, on summer nights,
A whole new world awakes, and is astir.
Oft as the moon falls bright upon the sward,
These tall tree forms in solemn concourse met—
Slim darksome spire and lofty rounded tower
Seem, each with his black shadow at his foot,
Like creatures conscious of a secret doom;
All through the solemn silence on the watch
To hear the wild talk of the nightingale,
As with a silver shock it suddenly
Pierces the silence from the sombre wood,
And all the garden rings with a new life;
And all my chamber, as I listening lie,
Thrills with the startling outburst that proclaims,
In syllables as distinct as yours and mine,
Things I could never tell to you again
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