{"id":"01KG8AKN1ZFX2KDZ26NMAPARPK","cid":"bafkreieykdu4ydscuugeb3mjakszajndmntzwf7xkxzbyvgz2qgj2mpupi","type":"chunk","properties":{"end_line":1801,"extracted_at":"2026-01-30T20:48:09.927Z","extracted_by":"structure-extraction-lambda","label":"Chunk 1","source_file":"01KG89J1954N2G0NAERBNJXEX9","start_line":1733,"text":"CHAPTER XV.\r\nDreams\r\n\r\n\r\nDreams! dreams! golden dreams: endless, and golden, as the flowery\r\nprairies, that stretch away from the Rio Sacramento, in whose waters\r\nDanae’s shower was woven;—prairies like rounded eternities: jonquil\r\nleaves beaten out; and my dreams herd like buffaloes, browsing on to\r\nthe horizon, and browsing on round the world; and among them, I dash\r\nwith my lance, to spear one, ere they all flee.\r\n\r\nDreams! dreams! passing and repassing, like Oriental empires in\r\nhistory; and scepters wave thick, as Bruce’s pikes at Bannockburn; and\r\ncrowns are plenty as marigolds in June. And far in the background, hazy\r\nand blue, their steeps let down from the sky, loom Andes on Andes,\r\nrooted on Alps; and all round me, long rushing oceans, roll Amazons and\r\nOronocos; waves, mounted Parthians; and, to and fro, toss the wide\r\nwoodlands: all the world an elk, and the forests its antlers.\r\n\r\nBut far to the South, past my Sicily suns and my vineyards, stretches\r\nthe Antarctic barrier of ice: a China wall, built up from the sea, and\r\nnodding its frosted towers in the dun, clouded sky. Do Tartary and\r\nSiberia lie beyond? Deathful, desolate dominions those; bleak and wild\r\nthe ocean, beating at that barrier’s base, hovering ’twixt freezing and\r\nfoaming; and freighted with navies of ice-bergs,—warring worlds\r\ncrossing orbits; their long icicles, projecting like spears to the\r\ncharge. Wide away stream the floes of drift ice, frozen cemeteries of\r\nskeletons and bones. White bears howl as they drift from their cubs;\r\nand the grinding islands crush the skulls of the peering seals.\r\n\r\nBut beneath me, at the Equator, the earth pulses and beats like a\r\nwarrior’s heart; till I know not, whether it be not myself. And my soul\r\nsinks down to the depths, and soars to the skies; and comet-like reels\r\non through such boundless expanses, that methinks all the worlds are my\r\nkin, and I invoke them to stay in their course. Yet, like a mighty\r\nthree-decker, towing argosies by scores, I tremble, gasp, and strain in\r\nmy flight, and fain would cast off the cables that hamper.\r\n\r\nAnd like a frigate, I am full with a thousand souls; and as on, on, on,\r\nI scud before the wind, many mariners rush up from the orlop below,\r\nlike miners from caves; running shouting across my decks; opposite\r\nbraces are pulled; and this way and that, the great yards swing round\r\non their axes; and boisterous speaking-trumpets are heard; and\r\ncontending orders, to save the good ship from the shoals. Shoals, like\r\nnebulous vapors, shoreing the white reef of the Milky Way, against\r\nwhich the wrecked worlds are dashed; strewing all the strand, with\r\ntheir Himmaleh keels and ribs.\r\n\r\nAy: many, many souls are in me. In my tropical calms, when my ship lies\r\ntranced on Eternity’s main, speaking one at a time, then all with one\r\nvoice: an orchestra of many French bugles and horns, rising, and\r\nfalling, and swaying, in golden calls and responses.\r\n\r\nSometimes, when these Atlantics and Pacifics thus undulate round me, I\r\nlie stretched out in their midst: a land-locked Mediterranean, knowing\r\nno ebb, nor flow. Then again, I am dashed in the spray of these sounds:\r\nan eagle at the world’s end, tossed skyward, on the horns of the\r\ntempest.\r\n\r\nYet, again, I descend, and list to the concert.\r\n\r\nLike a grand, ground swell, Homer’s old organ rolls its vast volumes\r\nunder the light frothy wave-crests of Anacreon and Hafiz; and high over\r\nmy ocean, sweet Shakespeare soars, like all the larks of the spring.\r\nThroned on my seaside, like Canute, bearded Ossian smites his hoar\r\nharp, wreathed with wild-flowers, in which warble my Wallers; blind\r\nMilton sings bass to my Petrarchs and Priors, and laureate crown me\r\nwith bays.\r\n\r","title":"Chunk 1"},"relationships":[{"peer":"01KG8AJQ1A4K4GFGNQ1AXPTH5Y","peer_type":"chapter","predicate":"in"},{"peer":"01KG89J1954N2G0NAERBNJXEX9","peer_type":"file","predicate":"extractedFrom"},{"peer":"01KG89HMDZKNY753EZE1CJ8HZW","peer_type":"collection","predicate":"collection"},{"peer":"01KG8AKN1ZH7N0TH40643AXDRD","peer_type":"chunk","predicate":"next"}],"ver":2,"created_at":"2026-01-30T20:48:11.327Z","ts":"2026-01-30T20:48:20.273Z","edited_by":{"method":"manual","user_id":"01KFF0H3YRP9ZSM033AM0QJ47H"}}