But the vision faded and all was still,
On the purple valley and distant hill.
No sound was there save the wailing breeze,
The rain, and the rustling cypress trees.
VERSE: PICTURES IN THE FIRE
What is it you ask me, darling?
All my stories, child, you know;
I have no strange dreams to tell you,
Pictures I have none to show.
Tell you glorious scenes of travel?
Nay, my child, that cannot be,
I have seen no foreign countries,
Marvels none on land or sea.
Yet strange sights in truth I witness,
And I gaze until I tire,
Wondrous pictures, changing ever,
As I look into the fire.
There, last night, I saw a cavern,
Black as pitch; within it lay
Coiled in many folds a dragon,
Glaring as if turned at bay.
And a knight in dismal armour
On a wingèd eagle came,
To do battle with this dragon;
And his crest was all of flame.
As I gazed the dragon faded,
And, instead, sate Pluto crowned,
By a lake of burning fire;
Spirits dark were crouching round.
That was gone, and lo! before me,
A cathedral vast and grim;
I could almost hear the organ
Peal alone the arches dim.
As I watched the wreathèd pillars,
Groves of stately palms arose,
And a group of swarthy Indians
Stealing on some sleeping foes.