The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink I heard a voice it said Drink, pretty creature, drink'
And you must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love.
There is creation in the eye.
Dreams, books, are each a world.
Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.
The unconquerable pang of despised love.