Where rainbows rise through sunset rains By shores forlorn of isles forgot, A solitary Voice complains 'The World is here, the World is not.' The Voice may be the wind, or sea, Or spirit of the sundown West: Or, mayhap, some sweet air set free From off the Islands of the Blest: It may be; but I turn my face To that which still I hold so dear; And lo, the voices of the days-- 'The World is not, the World is here.' 'Tis the same end whichever way And either way is soon forgot: The World is all in all, To-day: 'To-morrow all the World is not.' VII In the noon-heat we lay, for rest and coolness, by the pool, and on the shadow-side of a hazel. The water was of so dark a brown that we knew it was of a great depth, and, indeed, even at the far verge, a heron, standing motionless, wetted her breast-feathers. In the mid-pool, where the brown lawns sloped into depths of purple-blue, we could see a single cloud, invisible otherwise where we lay. Nearer us, the water mirrored a mountain-ash heavy with ruddy clusters. That long, feathery foliage, that reddening fruit, hung in a strange, unfamiliar air; the stranger, that amid the silence of those phantom branches ever and again flitted furtive shadow-birds. We had walked for hours, and were now glad to rest. With us we had brought oaten bread and milk, and were well content. "It was by a pool such as this," said one of us, after a long interval, "that dreamers of old called to Connla, and Connla heard. That was the mortal name of one whose name we know not." "Call him now," whispered the Body eagerly. The Soul leaned forward, and stared into the fathomless brown dusk. "Speak, Connla! Who art thou?" Clear as a Sabbath-bell across windless pastures we heard a voice: "I am of those who wait yet a while. I am older than all age, for my youth is Wisdom; and I am younger than all youth, for I am named To-morrow." We heard no more. In vain, together, separately, we sought to break that silence which divides the mortal moment from hourless time. The Soul himself could not hear, or see, or even remember, because of that mortal raiment of the flesh which for a time he had voluntarily taken upon himself. "I will tell you a dream that is not all a dream," he said at last, after we had lain a long while pondering what that voice had uttered, that voice which showed that the grave held a deeper mystery than silence. The Will looked curiously at him. "Is it a dream wherein we have shared?" he asked slowly. "That I know not: yet it may well be so. I call my dream 'The Sons of Joy.' If you or the Body have also dreamed, let each relate the dream." "Yes," said the Body, "I have dreamed it. But I would call it rather 'The Sons of Delight.'" "And I," said the Will, "The Sons of Silence." "Tell it," said the Soul, looking towards the Body.