Classic Poem

Rise up, rise up, O dreamer!
The eastern sky is red;
The trumpet's note is calling,
The storm is overhead.

Out of the myrtle mazes
Rise up and come away,
And leave thy charmèd slumbers
At breaking of the day.

Come down, come down, O dreamer!
From thy aerial height,
Thy solitary strongholds
And mountains of delight.

Down in the trodden highway
Goes to and fro the crowd;
About the market-places
The tumult waxes loud.

The gates of sleep slide open,
And past them lies a strand
That seems like one remembered,
The last of English land.

Where bent before our coming,
And smoothed beneath our tread,
The gold of gorse, the waxen heath,
The wild bog myrtle bed;

Bowed crisp and close and even
As for a dancing floor,
With fresh crushed odours speeding
The fleet feet evermore

But in the world of waking
Whoso the straight path goes
Will find it steep and narrow,
With iron gates that close.

And there the feet pass bleeding,
O'er flint and thorn and brier,
And burning desert phantoms
But mock the parched desire

And every breath is battle,
And every step a fall;
And less than loss of all things
Shall win no way at all.

And all around are pressing,
Darkness behind, before,
Souls low and heavy-laden,
In struggle sad and sore

These are thine own, thy nearest,
For this brief human space;—
Break not thy bonds before-time,
Nor spurn the earth-bound place,

And if awhile thy dreaming
Did seem to bear thee far,
Rejoice it was but seeming,
While here thy brethren are

Rejoice that if the night-time
Did bring thee songs like these,
That to the pure come only,
White sails from shoreless seas;

That if no hands of foemen
Could touch the citadel
Wherein these thronèd visions
Still smile, impregnable;

That if the utmost malice
Which fortune's hate might prove
Could wither not one leaflet
Of thy enchanted grove;

That if, the world forsaking,
And false friends turned to foes,
The angel wings unfolded
To curtain thy respose;

That if from deeps of sorrow
The airs about thee blown
Had sound of silver trumpets
Uplifted round a throne;

That if, 'mid hurling torrents,
And 'mid the winter sleet,
The purple amaryllis
Still sprang around thy feet;

That if from darkened chambers
And lips in anguish dumb
The breeze of mountain summits
Across the world has come;—

That not as this world giveth
These gifts were given to thee,
And never was thy daytime
From loss or anguish free;

That never soil of riches
Might cleave unto thy hand,
That thou dost lone and portionless
Among thy brethren stand;

That all thy will was answered,
However flesh might shrink,
That of the full cup's bitterness
No drop was spared to drink;

That never other guerdon
Of service thou didst gain
But trebly-added burden
Of labour and of pain;

That with her spray of olive
Above the waters dark,
Thy dove still flies unresting,
And finds no sheltering ark—

And henceforth unescaping
The station of the Cross;
Renounce the lonely favour,
And take the lowly loss

For oversweer is slumber
So near the dawn of day;—
Could ye not watch with me one hour?
The signals seem to say.

Thou pourest forth no comfort
For thirsting hearts below;
Thou drawest down no lover
Thine own delight to know;

Thou fleetest through the forests
By moonlight o'er the snow,
Behind thee shut the windows,
The homestead fires aglow;

Thou hearest magic melodies
Beneath the waning moon,
Far from the children's voices
That may be parted soon;

Thou liest as thine own child
Might lie upon thy breast,
While purgatory holdeth
Its saved souls in unrest.

In this short spell of slumber
Some sweet and common pain
May have been lost already
Amid thy shadowy gain.

O parted from the sighing,
That ever seems to say,
With love more deep than anguish,
Forget me not, but pray!

O parted from the laughter
And light of children's eyes,
The little busy chatterings
That round me fall and rise,

By that enraptured raiment
Of dreamland round me thrown;—
Farewell, O fields of Faerie,
I come unto mine own!

O gift unearned, unsought for!
O wafted ghostly grace!
Dost thou not mistlike sever
My heart from its own race?

For ever falls a curtain
Of visionary sheen,
Where face to face we gather,
And all is dim between.

And ever floats a music
Which no one else can hear,
Where I and others mingle,
And then no talk is clear.

O magical pale banquet,
No common bread and wine,
Which all may share together
Where simple households dine!

O thin enchanted armour!
O moonbeam-woven mail!
No more! Let human sorrow
Strike me without thy veil!

O gardener of that garden,
Take back thy golden key!
Where others may not enter,
I pass no more with thee.

O robe star-strewn, embroidered,
O royal purple pall!
I loose you from my shoulders,
Till my last sleep shall fall.

O passionate eyes imploring!
O breast that was my own!
Dreams bring us never nearer:
We meet in prayer alone.

O lovely heads that cluster
About the firelight still,
Let every thought be your thought
Henceforward, if God will!

O ye who served and serving
Are with me every day,
More wholly near and present
Amongst you I would stay.

O friends that have not failed me,
The best, the few, the true,
Who have so long been patient,
Let me return to you!

O world that needest singers
Like churchbells clear and strong,
Let me ring truly in the strife
With human woe and wrong!

O Christ whose hour of coming
The stars of morning keep,
Let me be found to meet Thee,
Waking, and not asleep!