That robes me with the magic of those things
That lend imagination lyric-wings,
Imparadising all my dreams intense.
’Twill fade away, I know, and once again
I shall half-weep—to find I am quite sane!
Alas! I’ve worshipped stricken things called “Men”;
I’ve travelled down their groves and found their light
Hid magic splendours of the glorious night
Of things unseen. And now?—clear to my ken,
The sad old trees are whispering on the wind