The Sculptor's Reverie.
25
All the fancies of these day-dreams, Wrought out in a sculptor's room,No more stood in mute assembly, But prest on through light and gloom.
On I wandered, silent, wondering At the crowd that surged amain;"Strange," I said, "to be a stranger In a dream of one's own brain."
But such a crowd,—so many pictures, Scarce remembered—hardly known,Could these be my thoughts? bewildered I sank down and wept alone.
But hark! hark! the children's voices! Sweetly singing, "Let him pass!"—Little feet had been before me, Footprints lost in dewy grass.
Is it that the soul's unloosing From the body, tho' called death,When the "silver cord," if severed, Stops the heart, and stills the breath,
