Never could mortal ear nor eye
By sound or sign suspect them nigh,
Yet why may not some subtler sense
Than those poor two give evidence? 
Transfuse the ferment of their being
Into our own, past hearing, seeing,
As men, if once attempered so,
Far off each other’s thought can know? 
As horses with an instant thrill
Measure their rider’s strength of will? 30
Comes not to all some glimpse that brings
Strange sense of sense-escaping things? 
Wraiths some transfigured nerve divines? 
Approaches, premonitions, signs,
Voices of Ariel that die out
In the dim No Man’s Land of Doubt?

Are these Night’s dusky birds?  Are these
Phantasmas of the silences
Outer or inner?—­rude heirlooms
From grovellers in the cavern-glooms, 40
Who in unhuman Nature saw
Misshapen foes with tusk and claw,
And with those night-fears brute and blind
Peopled the chaos of their mind,
Which, in ungovernable hours,
Still make their bestial lair in ours?

Were they, or were they not?  Yes; no;
Uncalled they come, unbid they go,
And leave us fumbling in a doubt
Whether within us or without 50
The spell of this illusion be
That witches us to hear and see
As in a twi-life what it will,
And hath such wonder-working skill
That what we deemed most solid-wrought
Turns a mere figment of our thought,
Which when we grasp at in despair
Our fingers find vain semblance there,
For Psyche seeks a corner-stone
Firmer than aught to matter known. 60

Is it illusion?  Dream-stuff?  Show
Made of the wish to have it so? 
’Twere something, even though this were all: 
So the poor prisoner, on his wall
Long gazing, from the chance designs
Of crack, mould, weather-stain, refines
New and new pictures without cease,
Landscape, or saint, or altar-piece: 
But these are Fancy’s common brood
Hatched in the nest of solitude; 70
This is Dame Wish’s hourly trade,
By our rude sires a goddess made. 
Could longing, though its heart broke, give
Trances in which we chiefly live? 
Moments that darken all beside,
Tearfully radiant as a bride? 
Beckonings of bright escape, of wings
Purchased with loss of baser things? 
Blithe truancies from all control
Of Hyle, outings of the soul? 80

The worm, by trustful instinct led,
Draws from its womb a slender thread,
And drops, confiding that the breeze
Will waft it to unpastured trees: 
So the brain spins itself, and so
Swings boldly off in hope to blow
Across some tree of knowledge, fair
With fruitage new, none else shall share: 
Sated with wavering in the Void,
It backward climbs, so best employed, 90
And, where no proof is nor can be,
Seeks refuge with Analogy;