Yea, the halls of fierce Erick of Sogn with the turmoil of wassail are filled, With the steam of the flesh of the boar, and the reek of the ale that is spilled.
For the Yule and the victory are theirs, and the _waesheils_ are shouted and roared By the Berserks, the eaters of fire, and the Jarls round the ponderous board.
_And one, perchance, will read and sigh: "What aimless songs! Why will he sing Of nature that drags out her woe Through wind and rain, and sun and snow, From miserable spring to spring?" Then put me by._
_And one, perhaps, will read and say: "Why write of things across the sea; Of men and women, far and near, When we of things at home would hear-- Well! who would call this poetry?" Then toss away._
_A hopeless task have we, meseems, At this late day; whom fate hath made Sad, bankrupt heirs of song; who, filled With kindred yearnings, try to build A tower like theirs, that will not fade, Out of our dreams._
O wondrous legends from the storied wells Of lost Baranton! where old Merlin dwells, Nodding a white poll and a grave, gray beard, As if some Lake Ladyé he, listening, heard, Who spake like water, danced like careful showers With blown gold curls through drifts of wild-thorn flowers; Loose, lazy arms upon her bosom crossed, An instant seen, and in an instant lost, With one peculiar note, like that you hear Dropped by a reed-bird when the night is near, A vocal gold blown through the atmosphere.
Lo! dreams from dreams in dreams remembered. Naught That matters much, save that it seemed I thought I wandered dim with some one, but I knew Not whom; most beautiful, and young, and true, And pale through suffering: with curl-crowned brow Soft eyes and voice, so strange, they haunt me now-- A dream, perhaps, in dreamland.