My soul is like a lake, whose waters glass Stars, and the silver clouds which uncontrolled Sail through the heavens, and the hills which fold Its valley in a peace, tall reeds, and grass, And all the wandering flights of birds, that pass Through the bright air; and, in itself, doth hold Naiads with smooth white limbs and hair of gold: So is my dreaming soul. And yet, alas! It holds but visions, unsubstantial things. Transient, momentary; and the feet Of winds that smite the waters, blur the whole. Shattering with the hurrying pulse of wings That crystal quiet, which hath grown so sweet With fragile reveries. Such is my soul.