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Francis T. Palgrave, ed. (1824–1897). The Golden Treasury. 1875.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

CCLXXVII. The Poet’s Dream

ON a Poet’s lips I slept,

Dreaming like a love-adept

In the sound his breathing kept;

Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses,

But feeds on the aerial kisses

Of shapes that haunt Thought’s wildernesses.

He will watch from dawn to gloom

The lake-reflected sun illume

The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom,

Nor heed nor see what things they be—

But from these create he can

Forms more real than living man,

Nurslings of Immortality!