Thus did his heart with many an inward sigh
Ask of itself, though answer there was none
To be returned:  and so the day, begun
Tristfully, trailed an ever wearier wing;
Till toward night another questioning
Like a strange voice from far beset his soul: 
And as a low wind wails for very dole
About a tarn whereof the listless wave
Maketh no answer to its plaining, save
A sound that seems the phantom of its own,
So that low voice making unbidden moan
No answer got, saving the many sighs
Its echoes; and in this reproachful wise,
Heaping new pain on him disconsolate,
The low voice spake and spake, importunate: 
O Prince that wast and wanderer that art,
Say doth love live within thy hidden heart
(Love born of dream but nurtured wakingly)
Ev’n as that Once when thy soul’s eyes did see
Love’s visible self, and worshipt?  Or hast thou
Fall’n from thy faith in Her and Love ere now,
And is thy passion as a robe outworn? 
Nay, love forbid!  Yet wherefore art thou lorn
Of hope and peace if Love be still thine own? 
For, were the wondrous vision thou hast known
Indeed Love’s voice and Fate’s (which are the same)
Then, even as surely as the vision came,
So surely shall it be fulfilled, if faith
Abide in thee; but if thy spirit saith
Treason of Love or Fate, and unbelief
House in thy heart, then surely shall swift grief
Find thee, and hope (that should be as a breath
Of song undying) shall even die the death,
And thou thyself the death-in-life shalt see,
O Prince that wast, O wanderer that shalt be!

So spake the Voice.  And in the pauses of
That secret Voice, there ’gan to wake and move,
Deep in his heart, a thing of blackest ill—­
The shapeless shadow men call Doubt, until
That hour all unacquainted with his soul: 
And being tormented sore of this new dole,
There came on him a longing to explore
That sleep-discovered flowery land once more,
Isled in the dark of the soul; for he did deem
That were he once again to dream The Dream,
His faith new-stablished would stand, and be
No longer vext of this infirmity. 
And so that night, ere lying down to sleep,
There came on him, half making him to weep
And half to laugh that such a thing should be,
A mad conceit and antic fantasy
(And yet more sad than merry was the whim)
To crave this boon of Sleep, beseeching him
To send the dream of dreams most coveted. 
And ere he lay him down upon his bed,
A soft sweet song was born within his thought;
But if he sang the song, or if ’twas nought
But the soul’s longing whispered to the soul,
Himself knew hardly, while the passion stole
From that still depth where passion lieth prone,
And voiced itself in this-like monotone: 

“O Sleep, thou hollow sea, thou soundless sea,
Dull-breaking on the shores of haunted lands,
Lo, I am thine:  do what thou wilt with me.