‘ 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.”