Classic Poem

I hold with those philosophers who claim
That mind is all in all;
'Tis thought that feeds the sun's undying flame,
And shapes this earthly ball.

You are no dwelling-place of flesh, wherein
There hides a form of fear;
Your face no mask is for a face whose grin
Mocks ever all things dear.

You think you live; but soon you die and rot;
Your features tremble to a blur,
And then, anon, your very name's forgot,
And lo! you never were.

We live two lives thus: one in which there beams
By turns a sun and moon;
The other while we range the realm of dreams,
Wearing its magic shoon.

Wild songs, low sobs, faint echoings often drift
From that life into this,
And sometimes greet us, peeping through a rift,
Faces of those we miss.

But who our unremembered dreams can guess?
Can any poet tell
What poppied meads with eager feet we press,
What fields of asphodel?

Nay, this our madness, that we think is life,
Lasts only for a day,
And then we leave its folly and its strife
To sleep and dream for aye.