Pleasure is oft a visitant; but pain Clings cruelly to us.
Through the dancing poppies stole A breeze, most softly lulling to my soul.
The imagination may be compared to Adam's dream-he awoke and found it truth.
It is a flaw In happiness to see beyond our bourn, - It forces us in summer skies to mourn, It spoils the singing of the nightingale.
I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections, and the truth of imagination.
Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art-- Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite.