A Dreamer

Behold this Dreamer in His golden locks;
Murmuring is He and murmuring of His flocks;
Yea, murmuring of the bowing wheat in shocks!

O lovely Dreamer, what can be Thy dream?
Full of an idle pity Thou dost seem,
Jesus, and of an arrogant, wild theme.

How, — Dost Thou ask that we should worship Thee?
O Wanderer through the fields, how should this be?
What hast Thou done who stepst so wearily?

Loved art Thou of Thy Father? He is great,
Thou say'st, and He confirms Thee in Thy state.
Were it not better we should kill Thee straight,

Before of Thy fair dream we are undone?
For it is truth Thou speak'st: we are Thy sun,
Thy moon. Thy circling stars, O worshipt One!

Come let us bind Thee, take from Thee Thy crook,
And murder Thee, Beloved, in some wild nook!
It is this dream in Thee we cannot brook.

We bind, we cast Thee down into a pit;
We know not what we do: it is most fit —
Thou hast a dream — that Thou interpret it.