For to him the castle seems-- This old castle, Elsinore-- Like a thing built up of dreams; And the king’s a mask, no more; And the courtiers seem but flights Of the painted butterflies; And the arras, wrought with fights, Grows alive before his eyes. Lo, its giant shapes of Danes, As without a wind it waves, Live more nobly than his thanes, Sullen carpers, ale-fed slaves! In the flickering of the fires, Through his sleep at night there pass Gay conceits and young desires-- Faces out of memory’s glass, Fragments of the actor’s art, Student’s pleasures, college broils, Poesies that caught his heart, Chances with the fencing foils; Then he listens oftentimes With his boyhood’s simple glee, To dead Yorick’s quips and rhymes, Leaning on his father’s knee. To that mighty hand he clings, Tender love that stern face charms; All at once the casement rings As with strength of angry arms. From the couch he lifts his head, With a shudder and a start; All the fires are embers red, And a weight is on his heart. It is strange in Elsinore: Sure some marvel cometh soon! Underneath the icy moon Footsteps pat the icy floor; Voices haunt the midnights bleak, When the wind goes singing keen; And the hound, once kept so sleek, Slinks and whimpers and grows lean; And the shivering sentinels, Timorous, on their lonesome round, Starting count the swinging bells, Starting at the hollow sound; And the pine-trees chafe and roar, Though the snow would keep them still. In the state there’s somewhat ill; It is strange in Elsinore. FIAMMETTA In dream I passed the Gate that bears in black, “Here lies dead Hope.” The ineffable gold sky I saw between the pillars, looking back, And one young cloud, that slowly wandered by As though it wondered. Downward, all was dark, And through the dark I heard the sad souls cry.