‘ Have you not seen
    
⁠In ancient times

Pilgrims pass by
    
⁠Toward other climes?

With shining faces,
    
⁠Youthful and strong,

Mounting this hill
    
⁠With speech and with song?’

‘ Ah, my good sir,
    
⁠I know not those ways:

Little my knowledge,

    Tho' many my days.

When I have slumbered,
    
⁠I have heard sounds

As of travellers passing
    
⁠These my grounds:

‘ ’Twas a sweet music
    
⁠Wafted them by,

I could not tell
    
⁠If afar off or nigh.

Unless I dreamed it,
    
⁠This was of yore:

I never told it
    
⁠To mortal before;

‘ Never remembered
    But in my dreams,

What to me waking
    
⁠A miracle seems.”