Poem by Henry Alford

August 19, 1830

I go to the region of dreams,
Where a veil is drawn o'er the bright day--beams,
And a soft and shadowy mist of light
Is spread o'er the spiritual realms of sight--
And faces are not as faces were,
But there is an indistinctness there,
And features are idly marked and dim;
For the soul hath then the sway alone,
And sitteth upon her central throne,
And she goeth to meet but half the way
The forms of matter we see by day;
But then her passions are all her own,--
And the cup of joy is full to the brim,
And the eyes of the roaming intellect
Are busy in prospect and retrospect;--
And many a deed is acted o'er
Which seemed from the memory blotted before,
And many a course of action is spent
Which wanteth yet its accomplishment;--
And earth and heaven and realms below
Are open and free to the spirit's range,
As she bounds with bliss or sinks in woe,
In wilderment swift and wondrous change.

I go to the land of dreams:--
My soul's fast flowing streams
Sink for a time
Into a deep and shadowy cave
Silent and slumberous as the grave;
But they soon shall rise
And flow again with gurgling chime
In the light of day's fair eyes.

I go to the land of dreams,--
To the pool in the deepest and inmost grove,
Were dwell reflections of things I love,
Wavering and flickering on the lake
As the night breeze blows and the ripples break;
But cast by their fixèd forms above,
Which beam in blest tranquillity
From the firmament of Eternity.

I go to the land of dreams,--
I love that faery region well:
For things more lovely than I can tell
In its haunted bowers and shrubberies dwell:--
Thou busy world, Farewell.

1. 1846
2. Sunset at Burton Pynsent, Somerset
3. You and I
4. Culbone, or Kitnore, Somerset
5. Summit of Skiddaw, July 7, 1838

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