dim spectre-trees,
Swayed ever by the sweep of unseen wings,
Slow-stirring palms and arabesques of ferns
And fields of sombre bloom and scentless flowers
Not of their wonted hue, but dimly gray,
Where songless birds like shades of shadows flit,
And silent winds from poppied meadows blow--
And here dear presences to us denied
By sterner Day, approach to cry us hail;
And here a little do we taste the joy
Of kisses dreamed on lips forever mute,
A little know the bliss of Hope fulfilled,
And dreams that seem as true as very Truth ...
Yet well we know that with the stir of dawn,
Waking, we must return from Sleep's far fields!
Beside the Lethean stream whose soundless tide
Sets ever to the unknown tideless Sea
That breaks upon the farthest unknown shore--
They who have quaffed dark Asrael's mystic draught
Walk with still feet the viewless Path of Dreams
That winds thro' long, low-lying fields of Sleep
To fields Elysian or Tartarian glooms;
And haply, longed-for presences denied
By sterner Life shall come to cry us hail,--
Bright radiances from realms of light eterne,
Or shadows from the shades of awful Dis--
But whether here we taste of Hope fulfilled,
Or find our dreams are but as drifted dust--
From dark of Dis or realms of Light eterne,
Full well we know we shall return no more!

An Autumn Song

The dim sun slips adown the sky
That dies from gold to gray;
The homing birds that Southward fly
To my heart's hailing make reply,
Piping "Good-bye, good-bye!"

Southward I turn my wistful eyes,
Southward, where all my treasure lies,
Whither the homing sparrow flies,
Piping, "Good-bye, good-bye!"

The chill blast sweeps the steely sky
That glooms a sullen gray;
Soft summer winds that Southward fly
To my soul's sighing make reply
Breathing "Good-bye, good-bye!"

Southward I turn my longing eyes,
Southward my yearning spirit hies,
Whither or bird or zephyr flies
Sighing "Good-bye, good-bye!"

Vain

Wreath of laurel and crown of bay
And the noisy trump of Fame,
Praise for the singer's deathless lay,
And a listening world's acclaim.

But the singer sits with his grief alone
Where love lies cold and dead.
The plaudits fall on a heart of stone;
The Soul of the song has fled.

Sartor Resartus

Ah, God be merciful to him who sees
Thro' ermined pomp and pageantry of kings,
Thro' regal mien and beauty's witcheries
The poor, weak, shrivelled soul that crouches hid
Wi