Dressing me up in visionary glories,
Which the first air of waking consciousness
Scatters as fast as from the almander[14]—
That, waking one fine morning in full flower,
One rougher insurrection of the breeze
Of all her sudden honour disadorns
To the last blossom, and she stands again
The winter-naked scare-crow that she was!
Capt. I know not what to do, nor what to say,
With all this dreaming; I begin to doubt