138 MYSTERIES:
DREAMS.
HAT words are these that shudder through
my sleep,
Changing from silver into crimson flakes,
And molten into gold
Like the pale opal through whose gray may sweep
A scarlet flame, like eyes of crested snakes,
Keen, furious, and too cold.
What words are these? The pall of slumber lifts ;
The veil of finiteness withdraws, The night
Is heavier, life burns low:
Yet to the quivering brain three goodly gifts
The cruelty of Pluto and his might
In the abyss bestow:
Change, foresight, fear. The pageant whirls and boils,
Restricted not by space and time, my dream
Foresees the doom of Fate ;
My spirit wrestles in the Dream-King’s toils
Always in vain, and Hope’s forerunners gleam
Alway one step too late.