All poets dream, and some do nothing more.
When you have turn’d this paper o’er,
Then you may tell me, if you please,
Which I resemble most of these.
One morning as outstretcht I lay,
Half-covered by the new-mown hay,
I saw a bird high over-head,
And round him many smaller fled.
To me he seem’d a hawk or kite,
The little birds (who should be in a fright,
Yet never are, as you must oft have found)
Flew many after, many round.
Unable at full stretch to keep
My eyes, they wearied into sleep:
And, soon as I had sank upon the grass,
I saw the large and little pass
All into other shapes; the great one grew
Like Time; like full-grown Loves the smaller flew;
All kept their course, as they had done before;
But soon the less quite vanisht; he, the great,
Moved on in slow and solemn state,
Until I thought at last ho reacht the skies;
And then I opened (somewhat late) my eyes.