[BNP/E3, 77 – 66]

Final Image

Perfection.

Perfection comes to me in fevered dreams,

Beauty divine by earthly senses bound,

And lulls mine ear with slow, forgetful sound,

Her full heart's voice, burst forth in mindful gleams,

Such as I ne'er can grasp. Her soft hair streams

On to her lustless breast, wherein confound

The real and the ideal interwound,

And aught of earthly joy that heaven beseems.

Then day invades, and all is gone away;

I to myself return, and feel such woe

As when a ship‑wrecked sailor wakes[1] from sleep –

From the bright dreams of a sweet village day (-)

Lifts up his throbbing head, to hear below

The weighty, sunken rumble of the deep.

Alexander Search.

October, 1904.

[1] wakes^/d\