They were letting the dreamers dream.

These aberrations of memory are not uncommon with those who, like Mr. Fink-Nottle, belong essentially to what one might call the dreamer-type.

Wistful hands they were, speaking hands, an inheritance, perhaps, from some dreamer ancestor within the old-world ghetto, some long-haired, velvet-eyed student of the Talmud dwelling within the pale with its squalor and noise, and dreaming of unseen things beyond the confining gatesthings rare and exquisite and fine.

That volume, the end of which the dreamer foresees, the poet proposes to write: Ce livre, c'est le reste effrayant de Babel; C'est la lugubre Tour des Choses, l'édifice Du bien, du mal, des pleurs, des deuils, des sacrifices, Fier jadis, dominant les lointains horizons, Aujourd'hui n'ayant plus que de hideux tronçons Épars, couchés, perdus dans l'obscure vallée; C'est l'épopée humaine, âpre, immenseécroulée.

He imagined some dreamer-priest possessed by a singular hobby, searching for things of the spirit by those devious ways he had heard about from time to time, a little mad probably into the bargain.

Little brooklaugh and leap! Do not let the dreamer weep; Sing him all the songs of summer till he sink in softest sleep; And then sing soft and low Through his dreams of long ago Sing back to him the rest he used to know!