Chapter L

I saw them like the elders fall,
Whom once in Patmos’ lonely isle,
In dream apocalyptical
The Prophet saw, and quak’d the while:
But mine was nothing but a dream;
A phantasy, a fearful vision,
Reflected in a troubled stream,
A soul that long’d for sights elysian;
Mine was an agony of thought,
By grief, and subtle fancy wrought,
And what I saw I only tell
As my deep slumber’s miracle;
For well I know, that nothing gives,
And nought is known by man that lives,
Nor earth hath heard, nor thought conceived,
Nor Fancy into vision weaved,
What joys the Faithful have in store,
Where our dear Lord is gone before.