A Dream
By Matthew Arnold
Was it a dream? We saild, I thought we saild,
Martin and I, down a green Alpine stream,
Under oerhanging pines; the morning sun,
On the wet umbrage of their glossy tops,
On the red pinings of their forest floor,
Drew a warm scent abroad; behind the pines
The mountain skirts, with all their sylvan change
Of bright-leafd chestnuts, and mossd walnut-trees,
And the frail scarlet-berried ash, began.
Swiss chalets glitterd on the dewy slopes,
And from some swarded shelf high up, there came
Notes of wild pastoral music: over all
Rangd, diamond-bright, the eternal wall of snow.
Upon the mossy rocks at the streams edge.
Backd by the pines, a plank-built cottage stood,
Bright in the sun; the climbing gourd-plants leaves
Muffled its walls, and on the stone-strewn roof
Lay the warm golden gourds; golden, within,
Under the eaves, peerd rows of Indian corn.
We shot beneath the cottage with the stream.
On the brown rude-carvd balcony two Forms
Came forth, Olivias, Marguerite! and thine.
Clad were they both in white, flowers in their breast;
Straw hats bedeckd their heads, with ribbons blue
Which wavd, and on their shoulders fluttering playd.
They saw us, they conferrd; their bosoms heavd,
And more than mortal impulse filld their eyes.
Their lips movd; their white arms, wavd eagerly,
Flashd once, like falling streams:, we rose, we gazd
One moment, on the rapids top, our boat
Hung poisd, and then the darting River of Life,
Loud thundering, bore us by: swift, swift it foamd;
Black under cliffs it racd, round headlands shone.
Soon the plankd cottage mid the sun-warmd pines
Faded, the moss, the rocks; us burning Plains
Bristled with cities, us the Sea receivd