One Night I Dreamt Poem by Digby Mackworth Dolben

(1)

One night I dreamt that in a gleaming hall
You played, and overhead the air was sweet
With waving kerchiefs; then a sudden fall
Of flowers; and jewels clashed about your feet.
Around you glittering forms, a starry ring,
In echo sang of youth and golden ease:
You leant to me a moment, crying-'Sing,
'If, as you say, you love me, sing with these.'-


In vain my lips were opened, for my throat
Was choked somewhence, my tongue was sore and dry,
And in my soul alone the answering note;
Till, in a piercing discord, one shrill cry,
As of a hunted creature, from me broke.
You laughed, and in great bitterness I woke.


(2)

I thank thee, Love, that thou hast overthrown
The tyranny of Self; I would not now
Even in desire, possess thee mine alone
In land-locked anchorage: nay rather go,
Ride the high seas, the fruitless human seas,
Where white-winged ships are set for barren shores,
Though freighted all, those lovely argosies,
And laden with a wealth of rarest stores.


Go, draw them after thee, and lead them on
With thine own music, to the ideal west,
Where, in the youth of ages, vaguely shone
The term of all, the Islands of the Blest.


I too dare steer, for once-loved haven's sake,
My tiny skiff along thy glorious wake.


(3)

A boyish friendship! No, respond the chimes,
The years of chimes fulfillèd since we parted,
Since 'au revoir' you said among the limes,
And passed away in silence tender-hearted.
I hold it cleared by time that not of heat,
Or sudden passion my great Love was born:
I hold that years the calumny defeat
That it would fade as freshness off the morn.


That it was fathered not by mean desire
Of eye and ear, doth cruel distance prove.-
My life is cleft to steps that lift it higher,
And with my growing manhood grows my Love.


Then come and tread the fruits of disconnection
To the sweet vintage of your own perfection.


(4)

O come, my king, and fill the palaces
Where sceptred Loss too long hath held her state,
With courts of Joyaunce, and a laughing breeze
Of voices.-If thou willest, come;-I wait
Unquestioning, no servant, but thy slave.
I plead no merit, and no claim for wages,
Nor that sweet favour which my sovereign gave
In other days, of his own grace: but pages
Are privileged to linger at the door
With longing eyes, while nobles kiss the hand
Of him the noblest, though elect no more
To touch the train, or at the throne to stand.


But come, content me with the lowest place,
So be it that I see thy royal face.