I Dreamed A Dream Of Heaven, White As Frost, The Splendid Stillness Of A Living Host; Vast Choirs Of Upturned Faces, Line O'Er Line. Then My Blood Froze; For Every Face Was Mine. Spirits With Sunset Plumage Throng And Pass, Glassed Darkly In The Sea Of Gold And Glass. But Still On Every Side, In Every Spot, I Saw A Million Selves, Who Saw Me Not. I Fled To Quiet Wastes, Where On A Stone, Perchance, I Found A Saint, Who Sat Alone; I Came Behind: He Turned With Slow, Sweet Grace, And Faced Me With My Happy, Hateful Face. I Cowered Like One That In A Tower Doth Bide, Shut In By Mirrors Upon Every Side; Then I Saw, Islanded In Skies Alone And Silent, One That Sat Upon A Throne. His Robe Was Bordered With Rich Rose And Gold, Green, Purple, Silver Out Of Sunsets Old; But O'Er His Face A Great Cloud Edged With Fire, Because It Covereth The World'S Desire. But As I Gazed, A Silent Worshipper, Methought The Cloud Began To Faintly Stir; Then I Fell Flat, And Screamed With Grovelling Head, 'If Thou Hast Any Lightning, Strike Me Dead! 'But Spare A Brow Where The Clean Sunlight Fell, The Crown Of A New Sin That Sickens Hell. Let Me Not Look Aloft And See Mine Own Feature And Form Upon The Judgment-Throne.' Then My Dream Snapped: And With A Heart That Leapt I Saw Across The Tavern Where I Slept, The Sight Of All My Life Most Full Of Grace, A Gin-Damned Drunkard'S Wan Half-Witted Face.