I dreamed a dream: I dreamt that I espied, Upon a stone that was not rolled aside, A Shadow sit upon a grave—a Shade, As thin, as unsubstantial, as of old Came, the Greek poet told, To lick the life-blood in the trench Ulysses made— As pale, as thin, and said: ‘I am the Resurrection of the Dead. The night is past, the morning is at hand, And I must in my proper semblance stand, Appear brief space and vanish,—listen, this is true, I am that Jesus whom they slew.’ And shadows dim, I dreamed, the dead apostles came, And bent their heads for sorrow and for shame— Sorrow for their great loss, and shame For what they did in that vain name. And in long ranges far behind there seemed Pale vapoury angel forms; or was it cloud? that kept Strange watch; the women also stood beside and wept. And Peter spoke the word: ‘O my own Lord, What is it we must do? Is it then all untrue? Did we not see, and hear, and handle Thee, Yea, for whole hours Upon the Mount in Galilee, On the lake shore, and here at Bethany, When Thou ascendedst to Thy God and ours?’ And paler still became the distant cloud, And at the word the women wept aloud. And the Shade answered, ‘What ye say I know not; But it is true I am that Jesus whom they slew, Whom ye have preached, but in what way I know not. * * * * * And the great World, it chanced, came by that way, And stopped, and looked, and spoke to the police, And said the thing, for order’s sake and peace, Most certainly must be suppressed, the nuisance cease His wife and daughter must have where to pray, And whom to pray to, at the least one day In seven, and something sensible to say. Whether the fact so many years ago Had, or not, happened, how was he to know? Yet he had always heard that it was so. As for himself, perhaps it was all one; And yet he found it not unpleasant, too, On Sunday morning in the roomy pew, To see the thing with such decorum done. As for himself, perhaps it was all one; Yet on one’s death-bed all men always said It was a comfortable thing to think upon The atonement and the resurrection of the dead. So the great World as having said his say, Unto his country-house pursued his way. And on the grave the Shadow sat all day. * * * * * And the poor Pope was sure it must be so, Else wherefore did the people kiss his toe? The subtle Jesuit cardinal shook his head, And mildly looked and said, It mattered not a jot Whether the thing, indeed, were so or not; Religion must be kept up, and the Church preserved, And for the people this best served, And then he turned, and added most demurely, ‘Whatever may befal, We Catholics need no evidence at all, The holy father is infallible, surely!’