one of the most mysterious of semi-speculations is, one would suppose, that of one Mind's imagining into another
There is a budding morrow in midnight.
Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
Thou art a dreaming thing, A fever of thyself.
My creed is love and you are its only tenet.
Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.