If he could only wake up now, And confront me--that ancient salvage! Resurgated, with his faculties All quick about him, and his memories, What an unheard-of powwow Could I report to you, O friends of mine! Who look for some revelation, Some hint of the strange apocalypse, Which the wit of this man, living So near to the prime of the morning, So near to the gates of the azure, The awful gates of the Unseen-- Whence all that is seen proceeded-- Hath wrought in this new-found country! I wonder if he would remember Anything about the Land of the Immortals. Something he would surely find In the deeps of his consciousness To wake up a dim reminiscence. Dreamy shadows might haunt him, Shadows of beautiful faces, and of terrible; Large, lustrous eyes, full of celestial meanings, Looking up at him, beseeching him, From unfathomable abysses, With glances which were a language. The finalest secrets and mysteries, Behind every sight, and sound, and color, Behind all motions, and harmonies, Which floated round about him, Archetypes of the phenomenal! Or, it might be, that coming suddenly in his mind Upon some dark veil, as of Isis, He lifts it with a key-thought, Or the sudden memory of an arcane sign, And beholds the gardens of Living Light, The starry platform, palaces, and thrones-- The vast colossi, the intelligences Moving to and fro over the flaming causeways Of the kingdoms beyond the gates-- The infinite arches And the stately pillars, Upbuilt with sapphire suns And illuminated with emerald and ruby stars, Making cathedrals of immensity For the everlasting worship without words. All, or some, of the wondrous, impenetrable picture-land: The crimson seas, Flashing in uncreated light, Crowded with galleons On a mission to ports where dwell the old gods And the mighty intellects of the Immortals. The ceaseless occupations, The language and the lore; The arts, and thoughts, the music, and the instruments; The beauty and the divine glory of the faces, And how the Immortals love, Whether they wed like Adamites, Or are too happy to wed, Living in single blessedness! Well, I know it is rubbish, The veriest star-dust of fancy, To think of such a thing as this Being a memorial heirloom of the fore-world, Such rude effigies of men, Such clodbrains, as these poor mound builders!