MIDNIGHT AT BAIAE: A DREAM FRAGMENT OF IMPERIAL ROME
("the following is the literal verse-transcript of a dream actually dreamed by me")

by John Addington Symonds (1840 - 1893)

Darkling I steal, and with hushed footsteps slow
Thread the dim palace; between painted walls
And pillared aisles and perfumed plants arrow.
Whither? ah, where? Keen as a sword-edge falls
Light from yon slender portal. Onward still
I am lured spell-bound through the noiseless halls.
Still onward. Sense and thought and shrinking will
Compelled by irresistible control,
Grope toward yon shining slit that sharp and chill
Gleams like the lode-star of my shimmering soul.
Yet I would fain draw back; all is so dark,
So ominously tranquil; and the goal
Toward which I tend is but one steady spark,
Cleaving like the dream-drowned twilight terrible.
What noise? Nay startle not. The watch-dogs bark
Far off in farm-yards where men slumber well.
      Here stillness broods; save when a cricket chirrs,
      Or wheeling on slant wing the black bat fell
Utters her thin shrill scream. No night wind stirs
      The sleeping foliage of those stately bays.
      Forward I venture. On warm silky furs
My feet fall muffled now; and now I raise
      The latchet of the door that stands ajar.
      Light floods but dazzles not my frozen gaze.
What is within I reckon. Near and far,
      Things small and great, sights wonderful and strange,
      Alike in equal vision, on that bar
Of blackness standing, with fixed eyes I range.
      It is a narrow room; walls high and straight
      Enclose it. Yonder lights that counterchange
Shadow with lustre, scarce can penetrate
      The fretwork of high rafters rough with gold.
      The lamps are silver: Satyrs love-elate
Upraising cressets; phallic horns that hold
      Creamed essence, amber oil. From gloom profound 
      Lean shapes of mutual heroes, lovers old, 
Glimmering with hues auroral on the ground
      Of ebon blackness. Hylas, Hyacinth, 
      And heaven-rapt Ganymede: I know them: crowned
With lilies dew-bedrenched,
      Of jasper droops Uranian love, a god
      Wrought of bruised bronze for some labyrinth
Of Acadèmic grove where sages trod;
      Bare, breathless, in his beauty, here Love smiled,
      Making more grim the ghastly solitude.
Midmost the chamber was a table piled
      With fruits and flowers. Thereon there blazed a Cup,
      Carven of sardonyx, where Maenads wild
With wine and laughter, shrieking, seemed to sup
      The blood of mangled Pentheus. It was full
      Of dark Falernian; the draught bubbling up
From tawny into crimson, rich and cool,
      Glowed in the bowl untasted. Wreathes of rose,
      Pure as lithe Shepard lads in Paestum pull,
Circled two sculptured murrhine cups; but those
      Were void, no wine-spilth made their wreaths more red. 
      Then was aware how, neath the flaming rows
Of cressets, a flat ivory couch was spread.
      Smooth Tyrian silks and gauzes hyaline
      Clung clasped with jeweled buckles to the bed.
Thereon lay stretched a fair nude form supine;
      An alabaster youth serenely laid
      In slumber. Honey-pale and sleek and fine
Were his limbs: and o’er his breasts there played
      The lambent smiles of lamplight. But a pool
      Of blood, low down, along the pavement strayed.
There, where blue cups of lotus lilies cool
      With reeds into mosaic rings were bent,
      The black blood grew and curdled; for the wool
Whereon his cloudy curls were pillowed, sent
      Thick drops slow-dripping down the ivory rim;
      Yet was raiment ruffled not nor rent.
In trance I crept, and closer gazed at him.
      Ah me! from side to side his throat was gashed
      With some keen blade; and every noble limb
With marks of crisped fingers marred and lashed
      Told the fierce strain of tyrannous lust that here
      Life’s crystal vase of youth divine had dashed.
It is enough. Those glazed eyes, wide and clear;
      Those lips by forceful kisses bruised; that cheek
      Where on foul teeth-dints blackened; the tense fear
Of that white innocent forehead; -- vain and weak
      Are words, unutterably weak and vain
      To paint how madly eloquent, how meek
Were those mute signs of dire soul-shattering pain.