How mystical is thought! We do but think,
Be it of heaven or hell, and we are there!
Such feet has phantasy, more fleet than light,
We flash ourselves away where'er we will,
And in a wink return we know not how.
It is our Genius haply makes it all —
The vision of the things we seem to see,
Which yet are not, or were not, had we not
The miracle of thought within us still,
Like Love's begetting, making all things new,
And still unmaking all we have done with;
So with creative joy as in a dream
Folding us in ourselves, as if it were,
Who are still one with all that we have made,
Revisioning the mystic entities
As each one reads as with undying eyes
The hyacinthine wonder of the soul,
As if alone in an enchanted isle
On the meridian of his own desire.