Of Remembering

Is it a new country

In another world of reality

Than Day's?

Or did I live there

Before Day was?

I awoke

To an ordinary morning with gray light
Reflected from the street,
But still remembered
The dark-blue night
Above the tree line,
The open moor in the moonlight,
The crest in the shadow.
Remembered other dreams

Of the same mountain country:     

Twice I stood on its summits,
I stayed by its remotest lake,
And followed the river

Towards its source.

The seasons have changed
And the light
And the weather
And the hour.
But it is the same land.
And I begin to know the map
And to get my bearings.    
by Dag Hammarskjold