“When he wakes—­the dreamy-hearted—­
        He will know not whence he came,
And the light from which he parted
        Be the seraph’s sword of flame;

“And behind its host supernal
        Guarding the lost Paradise,
And the Tree of Life eternal
        From the weeping human eyes.”

“You are an enchanter, Bryan.  As you speak I half imagine the darkness sparkles with images, with heroes and ancient kings who pass, and jeweled seraphs who move in flame.  I feel mad.  The distance rushes at me.  The night and stars are living, and—­speak unknown things!  You have made me so restless I will never sleep.”

I lay down.  The burden of the wonder and mystery of existence was upon me.  Through the opening of the tent the warm night air flowed in; the stars seemed to come near—­nearer—­full of kindly intent—­with familiar whispering; until at last I sank back into the great deep of sleep with a mysterious radiance of dream showering all about me.

Night The Second

The skies were dim and vast and deep
        Above the vales of rest;
They seemed to rock the stars asleep
        Beyond the mountain’s crest.

Oh, vale and stars and rocks and trees,
        He gives to you his rest,
But holds afar from you the peace
        Whose home is in His breast!

The massy night, brilliant with golden lights enfolded us.  All things were at rest.  After a long day’s ramble among the hills, we sat down again before our fire.  I felt, perhaps we all felt, a mystic unquiet rebelling against the slumbrous mood of nature rolled round her hills and valleys.

“You must explain to us, Bryan, why it is we can never attain a real quiet, even here where all things seem at peace.”

“We are aliens here, and do not know ourselves.  We are always dreaming of some other life.  These dreams, if we could only rightly interpret them, would be the doors through which we might pass into a real knowledge of ourselves.”

“I don’t think I would get much wisdom out of my dreams,” said Willie.  “I had a dream last night; a lot of little goblin fellows dancing a jig on the plains of twilight.  Perhaps you could tell us a real dream?”

“I remember one dream of a kind I mean, which I will tell you.  It left a deep impression upon me.  I will call it a dream of

The Northern Lights

I awoke from sleep with a cry.  I was hurled up from the great deep and rejected of the darkness.  But out of the clouds and dreams I built up a symbol of the going forth of the spirit—­a symbol, not a memory—­for if I could remember, I could return again at will and be free of the unknown land.  But in slumber I was free.  I sped forth like an arrow.  I followed a secret hope, breasting the currents of life flowing all about me.