Patrick Regan has kindly shared the material from his George Heath site with readers of the Victorian Web, who may wish to consult the original.
Far up in the garret I dream of thee,
O maiden, who dwell'st by the far-off sea.
Stretched out on my couch with my limbs at rest,
And my thin hands folded and still on my breast,
Shut out from the world and its care and strife,
I'm lying becalmed on the ocean of life.
Behind the past with its pain and toil,
And the present lies still in the soft calm smile
Of the radiant future that dawns for me,
O'er the dim-seen hills of eternity.
The tempest is lulled, and the heavens are clear,
And the lights glimmer out from an arbour near;
The fever of sickness burns low in my veins,
And silently wrestles and surely gains
A firmer hold on each vital part,
A surer grasp of the fluttering heart;
A mightier power and a sterner sway
O'er this shadowy tenement day by day;
I know that a work in the churchyard waits,
And a messenger stands at the golden gates,
But lovingly pauses a moment, the while
I take a last look at the dim old stile;
My boat is half on and half off the shore
Awaiting the tide that shall float us o'er;
From the horologue glideth the last few sands,
And quivers the balance in Time's worn hands;
The cable unravelleth coil after coil,
And the shadows grow long in the sunset smile.
I bask in the twilight of two dim shores,
With my head strained back, and my hands on the oars —
'Tis a moment ere I brave the dark stream,
So what can I do but be silent and dream;
'Tis the lull that precedes the last burst of the storm,
Ere the clouds break up and the sun shines warm.
Last modified 4 September 2002