The Poet's Dream

    Dreaming like a love-adept

    In the sound his breathing kept；

    Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses

    But feeds on the aerial kisses

    Of shapes that haunt Thought's wildernesses¹.

    He will watch from dawn to gloom

    The lake-reflected sun illume

    The blue bees in the ivy-bloom

    Nor heed² nor see what things they be—

    But from these create he can

    Forms more real than living man

    Nurslings of Immortality³！