Classic Poem

I dreamed a dream last night, when all was still,
When earth in sleep forgot her murmurings;
I saw the soul, the spirit—what you will—
Of this vast world; I saw the heart of things.

We call it real, this world of shapes and sounds,
These objects we can see and touch and hear,
Nor know we of the wonder-world that bounds
And thrills beneath, behind, the human ear.

I looked beneath, nor was I aught afraid,
And saw the living center, fine as flame.
I sensed the substance whereof man is made—
That which defies analysis or name.

I saw that back of everything there lies
This wondrous, shining essence, finer far
Than all the gathered gold of western skies,
More lasting still than suns or planets are.

This, this is real, for this it is that gives
Life, color, motion, form, to what we see.
This hidden something that forever lives,
Sustaining all with subtle certainty.

And have you not, at some portentous time—
Some crisis in your life, some pregnant hour—
Felt a swift breath from out this realm sublime,
Thrilled to the core of being by its power?

That night of fierce soul struggle, when you knelt
And cried aloud that Death unlock the bars;
Then looked above in sudden awe and felt
The mute compassion of a million stars?

That time you listened to some magic strain
Of master music, shaken by its might,
And, all aquiver with its joy and pain
Your soul swept on into some sphere of light?

In vain do men of science seek to prove
The hidden world that throbs behind the seen;
The ever-present Cause of things that move,
Eludes their searching sight, however keen.

As well might sunbeams seek to prove the sun
And rivulets the ocean, as that man—
A living flame from out the Central One—
Should seek to prove the Source where life began.

Within that unseen realm, all thought is born;
Each inspiration and each lofty theme
Is mothered there, and like a ray of morn
Comes shining down into the poet's dream.

We have an outlook on this world of forms,
While deeply rooted in the hidden sphere;
Impregnable to terrors and to storms,
The self-invisible knows naught of fear.

Would man but grasp, with focused powers of mind
The subtle laws that rule the finer realm,
Abandoning the lesser aims that blind,
The grosser joys that dull and overwhelm,

This dawning century would bring to light
The deepest truths for which we vainly grope;
Would open up new worlds to human sight,
In large fulfillment of our highest hope!