Which, like a sleeping swan, doth float
Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing.
He said himself of the poet that
Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses,
But feeds on the aërial kisses
Of shapes that haunt thought’s wildernesses.
There was never another poet of whom this was so true as of himself. Even when he writes
A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread,
or,
I see the waves upon the shore,