A blessing on the tinkers, and on him
Who was their monarch—he who laid him down
Within a prison house all damp and dim,
And made himself immortal with his dream,
That sprung from out his heart as from the crown
Of the sweet sky the day will come in streams
When morning breaks, and in my bosom leaps
And frets the wish to see the quiet spot,
Where, in the calm that evil men know not,
The sacred dust of the grand dreamer sleeps,
Waiting the hour when God shall stir the dust;
Then in all truth and humbleness will he
Rise with his labour manifold, and be
The interpreter of his own dream and trust.