I think it better to believe,
And be even as the children, they
The children of the early day,
Who let the kindly dreams deceive,
And joyed in all the mind may weave
Of dear conceit — better, I say,
To let wild fancy have her way,
To trust her, than to know and grieve.
A poet of old Colophon
A notion held I think was right,
No matter how or whence he gat it:
The stars are snuffed out every dawn,
And newly lighted every night.
I hope to catch the angels at it.