'The Dream' by Lord Byron
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I
Our life is twofold; Sleep hath its own world,
A boundary between the things misnamed
Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world,
And a wide realm of wild reality,
And dreams in their development have breath,
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy;
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,
They take a weight from off waking toils,
They do divide our being; they become
A portion of ourselves as of our time,
And look like heralds of eternity;
They pass like spirits of the past—they speak
Like sibyls of the future; they have power—
The tyranny of pleasure and of pain;
They make us what we were not—what they will,
And shake us with the vision that's gone by,
The dread of vanished shadows—Are they so?
Is not the past all shadow?—What are they?
Creations of the mind?—The mind can make
Substances, and people planets of its own
With beings brighter than have been, and give
A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.
I would recall a vision which I dreamed
Perchance in sleep—for in itself a thought,
A slumbering thought, is capable of years,
And curdles a long life into one hour.
II
I saw two beings in the hues of youth
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill,
Green and of mild declivity, the last
As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such,
Save that there was no sea to lave its base,
But a most living landscape, and the wave
Of woods and corn-fields, and the abodes of men
Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke
Arising from such rustic roofs: the hill
Was crowned with a peculiar diadem
Of trees, in circular array, so fixed,
Not by the sport of nature, but of man:
These two, a maiden and a youth, were there
Gazing—the one on all that was beneath
Fair as herself—but the boy gazed on her;
And both were young, and one was beautiful:
And both were young—yet not alike in youth.
As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge,
The maid was on the eve of womanhood;
The boy had fewer summers, but his heart
Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye
There was but one beloved face on earth,
And that was shining on him; he had looked
Upon it till it could not pass away;
He had no breath, no being, but in hers:
She was his voice; he did not speak to her,
But trembled on her words; she was his sight,
For his eye followed hers, and saw with hers,
Which coloured all his objects;—he had ceased
To live within himself: she was his life,
The ocean to the river of his thoughts,
Which terminated all; upon a tone,
A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow,
And his cheek change tempestuously—his heart
Unknowing of its cause of agony.
But she in these fond feelings had no share:
Her sighs were not for him; to her he was
Even as a brother—but no more; 'twas much,
For brotherless she was, save in the name
Her infant friendship had bestowed on him;
Herself the solitary scion left
Of a time-honoured race.—It was a name
Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not—and why?
Time taught him a deep answer—when she loved
Another; even now she loved another,
And on the summit of that hill she stood
Looking afar if yet her lover's steed
Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew.
III
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
There was an ancient mansion, and before
Its walls there was a steed caparisoned:
Within an antique Oratory stood
The Boy of whom I spake;—he was alone,
And pale, and pacing to and fro: anon
He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced
Words which I could not guess of; then he leaned
His bowed head on his hands and shook, as 'twere
With a convulsion—then rose again,
And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear
What he had written, but he shed no tears.
And he did calm himself, and fix his brow
Into a kind of quiet: as he paused,
The Lady of his love re-entered there;
She was serene and smiling then, and yet
She knew she was by him beloved; she knew—
For quickly comes such knowledge—that his heart
Was darkened with her shadow, and she saw
That he was wretched, but she saw not all.
He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp
He took her hand; a moment o'er his face
A tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced, and then it faded, as it came;
He dropped the hand he held, and with slow steps
Retired, but not as bidding her adieu,
For they did part with mutual smiles; he passed
From out the massy gate of that old Hall,
And mounting on his steed he went his way;
And ne'er repassed that hoary threshold more.
IV
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Boy was sprung to manhood: in the wilds
Of fiery climes he made himself a home,
And his Soul drank their sunbeams; he was girt
With strange and dusky aspects; he was not
Himself like what he had been; on the sea
And on the shore he was a wanderer;
There was a mass of many images
Crowded like waves upon me, but he was
A part of all; and in the last he lay
Reposing from the noontide sultriness,
Couched among fallen columns, in the shade
Of ruined walls that had survived the names
Of those who reared them; by his sleeping side
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds
Were fastened near a fountain; and a man,
Glad in a flowing garb, did watch the while,
While many of his tribe slumbered around:
And they were canopied by the blue sky,
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful,
That God alone was to be seen in heaven.
V
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Lady of his love was wed with One
Who did not love her better: in her home,
A thousand leagues from his,—her native home,
She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy,
Daughters and sons of Beauty,—but behold!
Upon her face there was a tint of grief,
The settled shadow of an inward strife,
And an unquiet drooping of the eye,
As if its lid were charged with unshed tears.
What could her grief be?—she had all she loved,
And he who had so loved her was not there
To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish,
Or ill-repressed affliction, her pure thoughts.
What could her grief be?—she had loved him not,
Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved,
Nor could he be a part of that which preyed
Upon her mind—a spectre of the past.
VI
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Wanderer was returned.—I saw him stand
Before an altar—with a gentle bride;
Her face was fair, but was not that which made
The Starlight of his Boyhood;—as he stood
Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came
The selfsame aspect and the quivering shock
That in the antique Oratory shook
His bosom in its solitude; and then—
As in that hour—a moment o'er his face
The tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced—and then it faded as it came,
And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke
The fitting vows, but heard not his own words,
And all things reeled around him; he could see
Not that which was, nor that which should have been—
But the old mansion, and the accustomed hall,
And the remembered chambers, and the place,
The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade,
All things pertaining to that place and hour,
And her who was his destiny, came back
And thrust themselves between him and the light;
What business had they there at such a time?
VII
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Lady of his love;—Oh! she was changed,
As by the sickness of the soul; her mind
Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes,
They had not their own lustre, but the look
Which is not of the earth; she was become
The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts
Were combinations of disjointed things;
And forms impalpable and unperceived
Of others' sight familiar were to hers.
And this the world calls frenzy; but the wise
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance
Of melancholy is a fearful gift;
What is it but the telescope of truth?
Which strips the distance of its fantasies,
And brings life near in utter nakedness,
Making the cold reality too real!
VIII
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Wanderer was alone as heretofore,
The beings which surrounded him were gone,
Or were at war with him; he was a mark
For blight and desolation, compassed round
With Hatred and Contention; Pain was mixed
In all which was served up to him, until,
Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,
He fed on poisons, and they had no power,
But were a kind of nutriment; he lived
Through that which had been death to many men,
And made him friends of mountains; with the stars
And the quick Spirit of the Universe
He held his dialogues: and they did teach
To him the magic of their mysteries;
To him the book of Night was opened wide,
And voices from the deep abyss revealed
A marvel and a secret.—Be it so.
IX
My dream is past; it had no further change.
It was of a strange order, that the doom
Of these two creatures should be thus traced out
Almost like a reality—the one
To end in madness—both in misery.
Editor 1 Interpretation
The Dream by Lord Byron: A Deeply Symbolic and Moving Poem
As I sit down to write about Lord Byron's poem, "The Dream," I am filled with a sense of awe and wonder. This is a truly remarkable work of art that speaks to the very core of what it means to be human. In this essay, I will explore the many layers of symbolism and imagery that Byron employs in this poem, as well as the themes of love, loss, and the search for meaning that are central to the narrative.
At its core, "The Dream" is a story of a man who is haunted by the memory of his lost love. The narrator begins by describing a dream he had, in which he is wandering through a forest and comes upon a beautiful woman. He recognizes her immediately as his former lover, and they embrace. However, as soon as they touch, the woman disappears, leaving the narrator alone and desolate.
This opening scene sets the tone for the entire poem, which is suffused with a sense of melancholy and longing. The narrator is clearly obsessed with his lost love, and his dream is a manifestation of this obsession. Throughout the rest of the poem, he continues to search for her, but she remains elusive, always just out of reach.
One of the most striking aspects of "The Dream" is its use of symbolism. Byron employs a wide variety of images and metaphors to convey the narrator's emotional state and the themes of the poem. For example, the forest in which the dream takes place is a symbol of the narrator's mind, which is dark and tangled. The woman he encounters represents his lost love, but she is also a symbol of something deeper and more ineffable – perhaps the human soul or the quest for meaning.
Another powerful symbol in the poem is the image of the rose. The narrator mentions that he had plucked a rose before he encountered the woman, and that after she disappeared, he was left holding only its thorns. This image is a potent one, representing the way that love can be both beautiful and painful. The rose is also a traditional symbol of love, and its transformation into thorns suggests the way that love can turn bitter and hurtful.
Throughout the poem, Byron employs a wide variety of other symbols and metaphors. For example, the moon is a recurring image, representing the narrator's emotional state and the passage of time. The ocean is another potent symbol, representing the vastness of the human experience and the inscrutable forces that shape our lives.
One of the most powerful moments in the poem comes towards the end, when the narrator encounters a group of mourners who are burying a young woman. He is drawn to them, and watches as they lower the coffin into the ground. This scene is a powerful reminder of the transience of life, and the way that death can strip away all of our illusions and obsessions. The narrator's encounter with the mourners is a turning point in the poem, as he begins to realize that his quest for his lost love is ultimately futile.
At its heart, "The Dream" is a meditation on the nature of love and loss. The narrator is consumed by his memories of his lost love, and his dream is a manifestation of this obsession. However, as he continues to search for her, he begins to realize that his quest is ultimately futile. The poem is a powerful reminder of the way that love can transform us, but also of the way that it can be painful and ultimately unfulfilling.
In conclusion, Lord Byron's "The Dream" is a deeply symbolic and moving poem that speaks to the very core of what it means to be human. With its rich imagery and poignant themes, it is a work of art that continues to resonate with readers today. Whether we are grappling with the pain of lost love or simply searching for meaning in our lives, "The Dream" offers a powerful reminder of the complexity and beauty of the human experience.
Editor 2 Analysis and Explanation
The Dream by Lord Byron: A Masterpiece of Romanticism
Lord Byron, one of the most celebrated poets of the Romantic era, is known for his vivid imagination and his ability to capture the essence of human emotions in his works. His poem, The Dream, is a perfect example of his mastery of the art of poetry. The Dream is a complex and multi-layered poem that explores the themes of love, loss, and the power of the imagination. In this article, we will take a closer look at The Dream and analyze its various elements.
The Dream is a narrative poem that tells the story of a dream that the speaker had. The poem begins with the speaker describing his dream, which takes place in a beautiful garden. The garden is described in great detail, with its lush greenery, fragrant flowers, and sparkling streams. The speaker is accompanied by a beautiful woman, who is his lover. The two of them are deeply in love, and they spend their time in the garden, enjoying each other's company.
However, the idyllic scene is soon disrupted by the arrival of a group of soldiers. The soldiers are led by a man who is described as being "dark and stern." The man is clearly a threat to the speaker and his lover, and the two of them try to escape. However, they are soon caught by the soldiers, and the man orders the speaker's lover to be taken away.
The speaker is left alone in the garden, and he is consumed by grief and despair. He wanders through the garden, searching for his lover, but she is nowhere to be found. As he wanders, he comes across a group of mourners who are gathered around a tomb. The tomb is that of his lover, who has died.
The speaker is devastated by the loss of his lover, and he falls into a deep sleep. In his sleep, he has a vision of his lover, who appears to him as a spirit. The spirit tells him that she is happy and at peace, and that he should not grieve for her. The speaker is comforted by the spirit's words, and he wakes up from his dream.
The Dream is a poem that is rich in symbolism and imagery. The garden that the speaker and his lover are in represents the ideal of love and happiness. The soldiers who disrupt the idyllic scene represent the harsh realities of life, and the man who leads them represents the forces that threaten to destroy love and happiness. The tomb that the speaker's lover is buried in represents the finality of death, and the spirit that appears to the speaker represents the hope of an afterlife.
The Dream is also a poem that explores the power of the imagination. The speaker's dream is a product of his own imagination, and it is through his imagination that he is able to find comfort and solace. The spirit that appears to him in his dream is a product of his own imagination, and it is through his imagination that he is able to find peace.
The Dream is a poem that is deeply rooted in the Romantic tradition. The Romantic era was a time when poets and artists celebrated the power of the imagination and the beauty of nature. The Dream embodies these ideals, and it is a testament to the enduring power of Romanticism.
In conclusion, The Dream is a masterpiece of Romantic poetry. It is a complex and multi-layered poem that explores the themes of love, loss, and the power of the imagination. It is a poem that is rich in symbolism and imagery, and it is a testament to the enduring power of the Romantic tradition. Lord Byron's The Dream is a must-read for anyone who loves poetry and wants to explore the depths of the human soul.
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