In a sweet granite home, to find your love
The angel that she seemed in poetry.
And what is it to dream? It is to know
The talisman of motion, and soar on
To the high places of the upper air,
Like a superior spirit. ’Tis to glide
Out upon chainless wanderings, unchecked
By time, or distance, or the circumstance
Of waking reason. ’Tis to weave long years
Of a still, midnight hour, or crowd a life