Roused by Sir Bevis or Sir Guy,
And the one eye that meets my view,
Lidless and strangely largening, too, 170
Like that of conscience in the dark,
Seems to make me its single mark. 
What a benignant lot is yours
That have an own All-out-of-doors,
No words to spell, no sums to do,
No Nepos and no parlyvoo! 
How happy you without a thought
Of such cross things as Must and Ought,—­
I too the happiest of boys
To see and share your golden joys!’ 180

So thought the child, in simpler words,
Of you his finny flocks and herds;
Now, an old man, I bid you rise
To the fine sight behind the eyes,
And, lo, you float and flash again
In the dark cistern of my brain. 
But o’er your visioned flames I brood
With other mien, in other mood;
You are no longer there to please,
But to stir argument, and tease 190
My thought with all the ghostly shapes
From which no moody man escapes. 
Diminished creature, I no more
Find Fairyland beside my door,
But for each moment’s pleasure pay
With the quart d’heure of Rabelais!

I watch you in your crystal sphere,
And wonder if you see and hear
Those shapes and sounds that stir the wide
Conjecture of the world outside; 200
In your pent lives, as we in ours,
Have you surmises dim of powers,
Of presences obscurely shown,
Of lives a riddle to your own,
Just on the senses’ outer verge,
Where sense-nerves into soul-nerves merge,
Where we conspire our own deceit
Confederate in deft Fancy’s feat,
And the fooled brain befools the eyes
With pageants woven of its own lies? 210
But are they lies?  Why more than those
Phantoms that startle your repose,
Half seen, half heard, then flit away,
And leave you your prose-bounded day?

The things ye see as shadows I
Know to be substance; tell me why
My visions, like those haunting you,
May not be as substantial too. 
Alas, who ever answer heard
From fish, and dream-fish too?  Absurd! 220
Your consciousness I half divine,
But you are wholly deaf to mine. 
Go, I dismiss you; ye have done
All that ye could; our silk is spun: 
Dive back into the deep of dreams,
Where what is real is what, seems! 
Yet I shall fancy till my grave
Your lives to mine a lesson gave;
If lesson none, an image, then,
Impeaching self-conceit in men 230
Who put their confidence alone
In what they call the Seen and Known. 
How seen?  How known?  As through your glass
Our wavering apparitions pass
Perplexingly, then subtly wrought
To some quite other thing by thought. 
Here shall my resolution be: 
The shadow of the mystery
Is haply wholesomer for eyes
That cheat us to be overwise, 240
And I am happy in my right
To love God’s darkness as His light.