Reflected in a troubled stream,
A soul that long’d for sights elysian;
Mine was an agony of thought,
By grief, and subtle fancy wrought,
And what I saw I only tell
As my deep slumber’s miracle;
For well I know, that nothing gives,
And nought is known by man that lives,
Nor earth hath heard, nor thought conceived,
Nor Fancy into vision weaved,