Midnight Shout And Revelry, Tipsy Dance And

Thus I Set My Printless Feet O'er The Cowslip's Velvet Head, That Bends Not As I Tread.

He Touch'd The Tender Stops Of Various Quills, With Eager Thought Warbling His Doric Lay.

Hard Are The Ways Of Truth, And Rough To Walk.

A Thousand Fantasies Begin To Throng Into My Memory, Of Calling Shapes, And Beckoning Shadows Dire, And Airy Tongues That Syllable Men's Names On Sands And Shores And Desert Wildernesses

To Be Weak Is Miserable, Doing Or Suffering.