No miracle in the miracle that I saw,
Touched, held.
My body tingled. All my veins
Froze with the inconceivable mystery,
The weirdness and the wonder of it all.
No vision? And no dream? Let poets play
At bowls with Yorick’s relic then, for ever;
Or blow dream-bubbles. I’ve a world to shape;
A law to guide me, and a God to find.
That night in sleep I saw—it was no dream!—