King Pharamond

Yea, thou deemest me mad: a dream thou mayst call it, But not such a dream as thou know'st of: nay, hearken! For what manner of dream then is this that remembers The words that she sang on that morning of glory;-- O love, set a word in my mouth for our meeting; Cast thy sweet arms about me to stay my hearts beating! Ah, thy silence, thy silence! nought shines on the darkness! --O close-serried throng of the days that I see not! [Falls a-musing again.