I suspected that I was dreaming.
“Arcadia!” I exclaimed, when the poet announced that supper would be prepared within half an hour.
I spied him through the window, gathering the loppings of trees and leaves. He made a camp-fire. Its soft smoke surged into the sky. Oh, smell it!
How fascinating is the Poet’s life!
I ran out, crying:
“Pray, make me useful!”
2nd—Dream and reality are not marked here by different badges. They waltz round. Dear poet home!
Was it in my dream that I heard the tinkle of bells?
I thought something was going on.
I parted from the bed. I pushed out my face from the window.