And this is how I tried to fathom the Lindenborg Pool.

* * * * *

_No memory labours longer, from the deep_
_Gold mines of thought to lift the hidden ore_
_That glimpses, moving up, than I from sleep_
_To gather and tell o'er_
_Each little sound and sight_.




A DREAM.


I dreamed once, that four men sat by the winter fire talking and telling
tales, in a house that the wind howled round.

And one of them, the eldest, said: "When I was a boy, before you came to
this land, that bar of red sand rock, which makes a fall in our river,
had only just been formed; for it used to stand above the river in a
great cliff, tunnelled by a cave about midway between the green-growing
grass and the green-flowing river; and it fell one night, when you had
not yet come to this land, no, nor your fathers.

"Now, concerning this cliff, or pike rather (for it was a tall slip of
rock and not part of a range), many strange tales were told; and my
father used to say, that in his time many would have explored that cave,
either from covetousness (expecting to find gold therein ), or from that