Classic Poem

When thou art dreaming, at the time of night
That dreams have deepest truth, comes not the form
Of th' ancient poet near thee? Streams not light
From his immortal presence, chasing harm
From thy pure pillow, and each nocturnal sprite
Freighting with happy fancies to thy soul?
Says he not, “Surely, maiden, my control
Shall be upon thee, for thy soul is dight
In a most clear majestic tenderness,
And natural art springs freshly from its deeps.”
Then as he clasps his reverend palms to bless,
Out from the dark a gentle family leaps,
Juliet and Imogen, with many a fere,
Acclaiming all “Welcome, our sister dear!”