The Sculptor's Reverie.
23
I said as the fire burn'd out on the hearth, Dissolving the frescoes in gloom,—With senses entranc'd has my spirit broke free From the body, the soul's only tomb?
The fire that burn'd in those dim restless depths, Drew shadows I'd ne'er seen before,Long, long I stood gazing—transfix'd with the sight, I had enter'd my soul's open door.
I seemed to be dreaming, yet still not asleep, Each sense was so quickened to sight,There were galleries, gardens, and flowers—Alas! Weeds too—noxious weeds, that no blight
Had faded or withered—strong root had they all, Too long had they choked up and barredThe palace within, a "temple" so called, Whose threshold with evil was scarr'd.
Yet still there were flowers, altho' every root Twined fast to some weed I deplored;Alas! must each blossom of loveliness cling To some evil sincerely abhorred?
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