Beside the stream that silverly steals on
To swell the song of that far-sounding sea
Which breaks upon the utmost shore of Thought,
They who have drunk at Song's immortal spring
Walk with glad feet the upland path of dreams
That whitely winds thro' long low-lying lands—
By one, yclept the Way of Fools—a plain
Of dust and ashes and of Dead Sea fruit;
But by another called the Path of Hope
That leads far up the slope of heart's desire;—
And haply both speak truth—for oft the way
Is set with stones that tear the climbing feet,
And oft for roses there is bitter rue,
And oft for singing there is idle scorn,
And sneers full oft for smiles. Yet well we know
The upland Path of Dreams that whitely winds
(Yclept or Way of Fools or Path of Hope)
Leads upward ever to the Hills of Song!

Beside the silent stream whose soundless tide
Sets ever to the unknown tideless sea
They who have drunk of Slumber's poppied draught
Walk with unsandalled feet the path of dreams
That winds thro' gray, low-lying fields of sleep
To dim dream shores girt with 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!