The Poet's Dream
Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1820

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!