A dread reality, to which his trance
Was but the faint foreshadowing. The hues
Of morning sleep upon enchanted earth
When the young soul exulting presses on
To chase the pleasures of its opening day.
Its dreams are fairy cloudlets, flushed with hope,
Wrought into beauty by the singing wind,
Which bears them on its wing so joyously;
While the glad revel of its morning song
Fills the blue arches of its summer heaven.