Tell thee what phantoms thicken in its air.
Twine thou thy gentle fingers, slumber-fraught,
With the loose shreds of my disheveled hair:
I shall see inly better if thou keep
My outer senses in a charmed sleep.
Sweet friend!—I love that pleasant name of friend—
We walk not ever singly, through the world;
But even as our shadow doth attend
Our going in the sunshine, and is furled
About us in the darkness—so that shade