O spirit! hark ye not unto these lines,
For I write not to thee —
Though the weight be far from our souls
Of this cloud that we so often see.

The power of dreams cannot claim
An orient's festival applause;
So be this cloud! the parted skin
Born everywhere with its pause.

The tints of the earth should fall upon seas of Mercury,
And all reflected jewels should melt;
For the heavenly flakes and all that is frail
Cannot compare with a poet's gilt.