The Dreamer O Thou who giving helm and sword,
Gav’st to the rusting rain,
And starry dark’s ass tender dews,
To blunt and stain:
Out of the battle I am sped,
Unharmed, yet stricken sore:
A living shape amid whispering shade
On Leith’s shore.
No trophy in my hands I bring,
To this sad, sighing stream,
The neighing and trumps and cries
Were but a dream.
Traitor to life, of life, of life of life betrayed
O, of thy mercy deep,
A dream my all, thy all I ask Is sleep.