Well! with what art we labour to deceive
Our hearts, and nurse vain phantasies of Hope,
And swelling thoughts, that have no certain scope,
What textures of enchantment do we weave,
What visions form, that we must disbelieve,
When first we cease to sit beneath the cope
Of Fancy, and behold our brethren grope
Through woes, that living man can never leave!
Oft have I sate in utter loneliness,
And dreamed a dream, for earth too passing fair,
The visioned scene I vainly could express,
I only know, that, Clara, thou wert there!
Oh! years have past since first this dream was sweet,
And years must pass, ere it can be complete!