  IF only in dreams may man be fully blest, Is heav’n a dream? Is she I claspt a dream? Or stood she here even now where dewdrops gleam, And miles of furze shine golden down the West? I seem to clasp her still,—still on my breast Her bosom beats; I see the blue eyes beam: I think she kissed these lips, for now they seem Scarce mine, so hallow’d of the lips they press’d! Yon thicket’s breath—can that be eglantine? Those birds—can they be morning’s choristers? Can this be earth? Can these be banks of furze? Like burning bushes fired of God they shine! I seem to know them, though this body of mine Pass’d into spirit at the touch of hers. |
|
