I slept and dreamt. To you it seems
No censor, swung to souls in dreams
Before the mind’s most holy shrine,
Rear’d there to memories most divine,
Could incense hold whose fumes could rise
And dim what bless’d my closing eyes.
You think my soul most surely thought
Of Cordova in dreams it brought.
You think that once again it calms
My mood to watch beneath the palms
The ancient river[3] freshly lave
Rome’s ruined bridge[3] that naught could save.
You think, once more, my wonder wends
Across that orange-court[4] and bends
In that cathedral-mosk,[5] in which
A thousand[5] shafts with sculptures rich
Surround the soul like ghosts of trees
Beyond the touch of time or breeze,
While all the shafts to all bespeak,
In jasper, porphyry, verdantique,
The skill that train’d their artist’s hand
In grand old times that blest this land
Before the Moor’s glad suns had set
On days that earth can ne’er forget.
Nay, nay, I dreamt with joy intense,
But did not heed a hint from thence.