A wondrous company; as many as gleams
That stab the moted mazes of a beech.
And each grave dream, behold, had power to reach
My mind through magic; each one following each
In dim procession; and their beauty drew
Tears down my cheeks, and Merlin's gray cheeks, too,—
One in his beard hung tangled, bright as dew.—
Long pageants seemed to pass me, brave and fair,
Of courts and tournaments, with silvery blare
Of immaterial trumpets high in air;