Oh! bat-eyed vision! Oh! weak mortal eyes!
Are there no mountains left—no shining skies—
No rivers clothed in light?
Are there no happy broods
Of little flowers in rustic ways remote?
No pathways to the woods? And, oh! fell thought,
No golden-foliaged woods?
Such fancies rise to sight
In night's tranquillity, where Thought is born;—
But back the laughing world will come with morn—