VISIONS OF THE NIGHT

by: Robert Hugh Benson (1871-1914)

Libera me a terrore nocturno a negotio

Perambulante in tenebris . . . custodi

animam meam O Domine visitans me

visitatione sanctorum revela mihi animum

in visionibus noctis




re yet I slept, the summer night

Lay vague and mellow in the gloom

Beyond the steady candlelight.

The moth came tapping on the pane,

Intent on doom.

Then sank into the night again.




Then, as I lie, the darkened walls

Grow dim; the sheets are turned to air,

As fold on fold the slumber falls.

The ticking clock grows dumb with sleep

And everywhere

About the soul slow pauses creep.




The sense contracts from form and space --

Shrinks to a speck within the brain --

Then opens on a wider place

That knows no law, no harmony;

Till once again

A newer world is born for me.




My spirit moves in dark dismay

About a house of misty halls:

I hear the shuddering branches sway

At gable-corners; on the floor

And on the walls

The firelight glimmers through the door.




I sit and talk beside the bed,

Grasp hands, and meet the living eyes,

Of one whom I had fancied dead

Some ten years back "How strange," I say

In glad surprise,

"That we should meet again to-day!"




He smiles for answer sudden then

I understand the mystery

Of dying, for the sons of men

And wonder where the sadness lay

To see him die

Last year -- or was it yesterday?




All passes; -- down long corridors,

That lead about this wilderness,

Fall footsteps tramping on the floors,

That come from nowhere and are gone

Yet none the less

I run in panting terror on.




Here is a lawn with beds and grass;

The birds sing shrilly in the air,

While multitudes pass and re-pass,

Who fill me with unknown distress,

That holds me there

To mark their swift unweariedness.




And so with eyes that ache to close,

And feet that fly and flag in turn,

About, about, my spirit goes.

In wondrous wise from deep to deep,

Before me burn

The crumbling pageantries of sleep.




O Lord of Light, who gav'st me breath,

And set'st my spirit ill at ease

Within the body of this death,

What means this dreaming rush and rout --

These phantasies

Born from within and seen without?




Since ghost and devil, foe and friend

Throng -- shadows on this shadow-stage --

Move from no source and seek no end --

Since all the passions born of fear

Terror and rage,

As in a looking-glass appear;




Why com'st Thou not Thyself, O Lord,

To still the tossing of the brain,

And calm with one imperious word

This storm of fancy under Thee,

And yet again

Bid peace, as once in Galilee?




Come, Lord; and if through toilsome days

I pray in dumb perplexity,

And strive to lift my wearied praise, --

Yet let me rest when night is deep,

And look on Thee

The Lord of waking and of sleep.

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