And when the woman heard, in wondering wise,
  She whispered, “They are speaking of my Lord.” 
And straightway swept across the open skies
  Multitudes like to these.  They took the word,
That flock of Angels, “He shall come again,
My Lord, my Lord!” they sang, “and He shall reign!”

Then they, drawn up into the blue o’er-head,
  Right happy, shining ones, made haste to flee;
And those before her one to other said,
  “Behold He stands aneath yon almond-tree.” 
This when the woman heard, she fain had gazed,
But paused for reverence, and bowed down amazed.

After she looked, for this her dream was deep;
  She looked, and there was nought beneath the tree;
Yet did her love and longing overleap
  The fear of Angels, awful though they be,
And she passed out between the blessed things,
And brushed her mortal weeds against their wings.

O, all the happy world was in its best,
  The trees were covered thick with buds and flowers,
And these were dropping honey; for the rest,
  Sweetly the birds were piping in their bowers;
Across the grass did groups of Angels go,
And Saints in pairs were walking to and fro.

Then did she pass toward the almond-tree,
  And none she saw beneath it:  yet each Saint
Upon his coming meekly bent the knee,
  And all their glory as they gazed waxed faint. 
And then a ’lighting Angel neared the place,
And folded his fair wings before his face.

She also knelt, and spread her aged hands
  As feeling for the sacred human feet;
She said, “Mine eyes are held, but if He stands
  Anear, I will not let Him hence retreat
Except He bless me.”  Then, O sweet!  O fair! 
Some words were spoken, but she knew not where.

She knew not if beneath the boughs they woke,
  Or dropt upon her from the realms above;
“What wilt thou, woman?” in the dream He spoke,
  “Thy sorrow moveth Me, thyself I love;
Long have I counted up thy mournful years,
Once I did weep to wipe away thy tears.”

She said:  “My one Redeemer, only blest,
  I know Thy voice, and from my yearning heart
Draw out my deep desire, my great request,
  My prayer, that I might enter where Thou art. 
Call me, O call from this world troublesome,
And let me see Thy face.”  He answered, “Come.”

Here is the ending of the second dream.
  It is a frosty morning, keen and cold,
Fast locked are silent mere and frozen stream,
  And snow lies sparkling on the desert wold;
With savory morning meats they spread the board,
But Justice Wilvermore will walk abroad.

“Bring me my cloak,” quoth he, as one in haste. 
  “Before you breakfast, sir?” his man replies. 
“Ay,” quoth he quickly, and he will not taste
  Of aught before him, but in urgent wise
As he would fain some carking care allay,
Across the frozen field he takes his way.