ON a Poet's lips I slept

    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 wildernesses.

    He will watch from dawn to gloom

    The lake-reflected sun illume

    The blue bees in the ivy-bloom

    Nor heed nor see what things they be—

    But from these create he can

    Forms more real than living man

    Nurslings of Immortality！