Not as I am, or I should see it now:
It spoke, I think—I thought, at least, it spoke—
And look’d alarming—yes, I felt the look.
“But then in sleep those horrid forms arise,
That the soul sees,—and, we suppose, the eyes— 40
And the soul hears—the senses then thrown by,
She is herself the ear, herself the eye;
A mistress so will free her servile race
For their own tasks, and take herself the place:
In sleep what forms will ductile fancy take,