Sweet are the thoughts that haunt the poet—s brain
Like rainbow-fringed clouds, through which some star
Peeps in bright glory on a shepherd swain;
They sweep along and trance him; sweeter far
Than incense trailing up an out-stretched chain
From rocking censer; sweeter too they are
Than the thin mist which rises in the gale
From out the slender cowslip—s bee-scarred breast.
Their delicate pinions buoy up a tale
Like brittle wings, which curtain in the vest
Of cobweb-limbed ephemera, that sail
In gauzy mantle of dun twilight dressed,
Borne on the wind—s soft sighings, when the spring
Listens all evening to its whispering.