They tell strange things of the primeval earth, But things that be are never strange to those Among them. And we know what it was like, Many are sure they walked in it; the proof This, the all gracious, all admired whole Called life, called world, called thought, was all as one. Nor yet divided more than that old earth Among the tribes. Self was not fully come-- Self was asleep, embedded in the whole. I too dwelt once in a primeval world, Such as they tell of, all things wonderful; Voices, ay visions, people grand and tall Thronged in it, but their talk was overhead And bore scant meaning, that one wanted not Whose thought was sight as yet unbound of words, This kingdom of heaven having entered through Being a little child. Such as can see, Why should they doubt? The childhood of a race. The childhood of a soul, hath neither doubt Nor fear. Where all is super-natural The guileless heart doth feed on it, no more Afraid than angels are of heaven. Who saith Another life, the next one shall not have Another childhood growing gently thus, Able to bear the poignant sweetness, take The rich long awful measure of its peace, Endure the presence sublime. I saw Once in that earth primeval, once--a face, A little face that yet I dream upon.' 'Of this world was it?' 'Not of this world--no, In the beginning--for methinks it was In the beginning but an if you ask How long ago, time was not then, nor date For marking. It was always long ago, E'en from the first recalling of it, long And long ago. And I could walk, and went, Led by the hand through a long mead at morn, Bathed in a ravishing excess of light. It throbbed, and as it were fresh fallen from heaven, Sank deep into the meadow grass. The sun Gave every blade a bright and a dark side, Glitter'd on buttercups that topped them, slipped To soft red puffs, by some called holy-hay. The wide oaks in their early green stood still And took delight in it. Brown specks that made Very sweet noises quivered in the blue; Then they came down and ran along the brink Of a long pool, and they were birds. The pool Pranked at the edges with pale peppermint, A rare amassment of veined cuckoo flowers And flags blue-green was lying below. This all Was sight it condescended not to words Till memory kissed the charmed dream. The mead Hollowing and heaving, in the hollows fair With dropping roses fell away to it, A strange sweet place; upon its further side Some people gently walking took their way Up to a wood beyond; and also bells Sang, floated in the air, hummed--what you will.' 'Then it was Sunday?' 'Sunday was not yet; It was a holiday, for all the days Were holy. It was not our day of rest (The earth for all her rolling asks not rest, For she was never weary).