I climbed the lofty trees—­the blanched trees—­
  The cleft was wide enough to let me through;
I clambered out and felt the balmy breeze,
  And stepped on churchyard grasses wet with dew. 
O happy chance!  O fortune to admire! 
I stood beside my own loved village spire.

And as I gazed upon the yew-tree’s trunk,
  Lo, far-off music—­music in the night! 
So sweet and tender as it swelled and sunk;
  It charmed me till I wept with keen delight,
And in my dream, methought as it drew near
The very clouds in heaven stooped low to hear.

Beat high, beat low, wild heart so deeply stirred,
  For high as heaven runs up the piercing strain;
The restless music fluttering like a bird
  Bemoaned herself, and dropped to earth again,
Heaping up sweetness till I was afraid
That I should die of grief when it did fade.

And it DID fade; but while with eager ear
  I drank its last long echo dying away,
I was aware of footsteps that drew near,
  And round the ivied chancel seemed to stray: 
O soft above the hallowed place they trod—­
Soft as the fall of foot that is not shod!

I turned—­’twas even so—­yes, Eglantine! 
  For at the first I had divined the same;
I saw the moon on her shut eyelids shine,
  And said, “She is asleep:”  still on she came;
Then, on her dimpled feet, I saw it gleam,
And thought—­“I know that this is but a dream.”

My darling!  O my darling! not the less
  My dream went on because I knew it such;
She came towards me in her loveliness—­
  A thing too pure, methought, for mortal touch;
The rippling gold did on her bosom meet,
The long white robe descended to her feet.

The fringed lids dropped low, as sleep-oppressed;
  Her dreamy smile was very fair to see,
And her two hands were folded to her breast,
  With somewhat held between them heedfully. 
O fast asleep! and yet methought she knew
And felt my nearness those shut eyelids through.

She sighed:  my tears ran down for tenderness—­
  And have I drawn thee to me in my sleep? 
Is it for me thou wanderest shelterless,
  Wetting thy steps in dewy grasses deep? 
“O if this be!” I said—­“yet speak to me;
I blame my very dream for cruelty.”

Then from her stainless bosom she did take
  Two beauteous lily flowers that lay therein,
And with slow-moving lips a gesture make,
  As one that some forgotten words doth win: 
“They floated on the pool,” methought she said,
And water trickled from each lily’s head.

It dropped upon her feet—­I saw it gleam
  Along the ripples of her yellow hair. 
And stood apart, for only in a dream
  She would have come, methought, to meet me there. 
She spoke again—­“Ah fair! ah fresh they shine! 
And there are many left, and these are mine.”