Thou Art A Dreaming Thing,

I Stood Tip-toe Upon A Little Hill, The Air Was Cooling, And So Very Still, That The Sweet Buds Which With A Modest Pride Pull Droopingly, In Slanting Curve Aside, Their Scantly Leaved, And Finely Tapering Stems, Had Not Yet Lost Those Starry Diadems Caught From The Early Sobbing Of The Morn.

Let Us Away, My Love, With Happy Speed; There Are No Ears To Hear, Or Eyes To See, - Drown'd All In Rhenish And The Sleepy Mead. Awake! Arise! My Love And Fearless Be, For O'er The Southern Moors I Have A Home For Thee.

Neither Poetry, Nor Ambition, Nor Love Have Any Alertness Of Countenance As They Pass By Me.

Was It A Vision Or A Waking Dream? Fled Is That Music--do I Wake Or Sleep?

His Religion At Best Is An Anxious Wish,-like That Of Rabelais, A Great Perhaps.