I could believe that I am here alone,

And all the world my dream;

The passion of the scene is all my own,

And things that seem but seem.

Perchance an exhalation of my sorrow

Hath raised this vaporous show,

For whence but from my soul should all things borrow

So deep a tinge of woe?

I keep the secret doubt within my breast

To be the gods’ defence,

To ease the heart by too much ruth oppressed

And drive the horror hence.

O sorrow that the patient brute should cower

And die, not having sinned!

O pity that the wild and fragile flower

Should shiver in the wind!

Then were I dreaming dreams I know not of,

For that is part of me

That feels the piercing pang of grief and love

And doubts eternally.

But whether all to me the vision come

Or break in many beams,

The pageant ever shifts, and being’s sum

Is but the sum of dreams.