Chapter LXXX

I knew it all: but there I lay,
My eyes were op’d—I could not stir!
I felt as some tir’d pilgrim may,
That hath been years a traveller!
A breeze was through my casement blowing,
And oh I heard the warblers sing;
And rarest plants their scents were throwing,
And every breath was full of Spring
And I was waking up from death,
As one who hath been drown’d;
Oh, how my spirit shuddereth
To tell ye of that swound!
I could not thank the Lord enow,
That it was all a dream;
The sweat was cold upon my brow,
And ’twas a blessed stream;
I felt the sweet life-giving air,
In every tangle of my hair,
But could not stir—for there was I,
In more than rapture’s reverie.
And was I yet in this green world,
Was yet my spirit here!
Was I safe home, that had been hurl’d
Out o’er the farthest sphere!
Oh—had I time to strive for Heaven!
Or, was I dreaming still!
Would God this riddle’s end were given!
I said—and like a thrill,
Over the hills, and over the dells,
I heard your music, bells, sweet bells!