Go: thou hast nothing to forgive.

To dream is better than to live.

But he shall see the rising sun

Who leaveth everything undone;

Whose mind from his attention's task

Strays like the shifting of a mask.

He only shall through greener vales

        Than even those that shine right through

The window‑panes of children's tales

        Wander, who thinks the world anew.

Only for him who sits and sings

        On the stiles and forgets his road

Does the fairies' bird spread her wings

        And the fairies' flowers grow more broad.

He shall not find a hand to feed

The silent sources of his need.

No one shall point the rill where he

May slake the thirst of infancy.

But greener valleys than To‑Day

And dearer thoughts than Far Away

Shall tap at his window and wake

His freshness other thirsts to slake.

So, like a seamstress sitting still

        At a window in the sunset

        Of a village no steps have met,

He shall belong to nothing ill.

But incorporeal, like a wish,

        His soul shall like a rainbow cross

        The rain‑green pastures of his loss

And earth shall blossom into speech.