Thou art a dreaming thing, A fever of thyself.
It keeps eternal whisperings around desolate shores
All writing is a form of prayer.
O magic sleep! O comfortable bird, That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind Till it is hush'd and smooth!
To bear all naked truths, And to envisage circumstance, all calm, That is the top of sovereignty
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter.