Nor for my words shall ye forget your tears,
Or hope again for aught that I can say,
The idle singer of an empty day.
"Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due time,
Why should I strive to set the crooked straight?
Let it suffice me that my murmuring rhyme
Beats with light wing against the ivory gate,
Telling a tale not too importunate
To those who in the sleepy region stay,