It holds and beckons in the streams;
It lures and touches us in all
The flowers of the golden fall--
The mystic essence of our dreams:
A nymph blows bubbling music where
Faint water ripples down the rocks;
A faun goes dancing hoiden locks,
And piping a Pandean air,
Through trees the instant wind shakes bare.
Our dreams are never otherwise
Than real when they hold us so;
We in some future life shall know
Them parts of it and recognize
Them as ideal substance, whence
The actual is--(as flowers and trees,
From color sources no one sees,
Draw dyes, the substance of a sense)--
Material with intelligence.