King Pharamond

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 my kingship, Slept my body--or died--but my soul was not sleeping, It knew that she touched not this body that trembled At the thought of her body sore trembling to see me; It lied of no bliss as desire swept it onward, Who knows through what sundering space of its prison; It saw, and it heard, and it hoped, and was lonely, Had no doubt and no joy, but the hope that endureth. --Woe's me I am weary: wend we forward to-morrow?