89 AWAKE. RISE up, rise up, O dreamer! The trumpet's note is calling, Out of the myrtle mazes At breaking of the day. Come down, come down, O dreamer! From thy aerial height, Thy solitary strongholds And mountains of delight. Down in the trodden highway Goes to and fro the crowd; About the market-places The tumult waxes loud. The gates of sleep slide open, Where bent before our coming, And smoothed beneath our tread, The gold of gorse, the waxen heath, The wild bog-myrtle bed; Bowed crisp and close and even As for a dancing floor, With fresh crushed odours speeding The fleet feet evermore. But in the world of waking Will find it steep and narrow, And there the feet pass bleeding, But mock the parched desire. And every breath is battle, And all around are pressing, Souls low and heavy-laden, These are thine own, thy nearest, For this brief human space ;— Break not thy bonds before-time, Nor spurn the earth-bound place. And if awhile thy dreaming Did seem to bear thee far, Rejoice it was but seeming, While here thy brethren are. |