Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream?

It's certain there are trout somewhere - And maybe I shall take a trout - but I do not seem to care.

What shall I do with this absurdity- O heart, O troubled heart-this caricature, Decrepit age that has been tied to me As to a dog's tail? Never had I more Excited, passionate, fantastical Imagination, nor an ear and eye That more expected the impossible.

How but in custom and in ceremony are innocence and beauty born?

Tread softly, for you tread on my dreams

And God stands winding His lonely horn, And time and the world are ever in flight.

What the world's million lips are searching for, must be substantial somewhere.