midst of the pleasance     'Neath the lime-trees, nigh the pear-tree, beholding the conduit?

Fair things I remember of a long time thereafter—     Of thy love and thy faith and our gladness together

And the thing that we talked of, wilt thou tell me about it?

We twain were to wend through the wide world together Seeking my love—O my heart! is she living?

God wot that she liveth as she hath lived ever.

Then soon was it midnight, and moonset, as we wended Down to the ship, and the merchant-folks' babble. The oily green waves in the harbour mouth glistened, Windless midnight it was, but the great sweeps were run out, As the cable came rattling mid rich bales on the deck, And slow moved the black side that the ripple was lapping, And I looked and beheld a great city behind us By the last of the moon as the stars were a-brightening, And Pharamond the Freed grew a tale of a singer, With the land of his fathers and the fame he had toiled for. Yet sweet was the scent of the sea-breeze arising; And I felt a chain broken, a sickness put from me As the sails drew, and merchant-folk, gathered together On the poop or the prow, 'gan to move and begone, Till at last 'neath the far-gazing eyes of the steersman By the loitering watch thou and I were left lonely, And we saw by the moon the white horses arising Where beyond the last headland the ocean abode us, Then came the fresh breeze and the sweep of the spray, And the beating of ropes, and the empty sails' thunder, As we shifted our course toward the west in the dawning; Then I slept and I dreamed in the dark I was lying, And I heard her sweet breath and her feet falling near me, And the rustle of her raiment as she sought through the darkness,     Sought, I knew not for what, till her arms clung about me With a cry that was hers, that was mine as I wakened.

Yea, a sweet dream it was, as thy dreams were aforetime.

Nay not so, my fosterer: thy hope yet shall fail thee If thou lookest to see me turned back from my folly, Lamenting and mocking the life of my longing. Many such have I had, dear dreams and deceitful, When the soul slept a little from all but its search, And lied to the body of bliss beyond telling; Yea, waking had lied still but for life and its torment. Not so were those dreams of the days of 

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