My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
A minute since, and Lethe wards have sunk.
“Lethe we had in our Homer not long ago. Lethe, the water of forgetfulness. Sometimes I think Blaize and others of you have drunk it.
“ ’Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thy happiness
That thou, light-wingèd dryad of the trees
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Dreamest of summer in full-throated ease.”