Who hath not wakened, dizzy, from the dream,
The fairyland, that boyhood claim’d his own?
Who hath not gulped down memories that teem,
E’er such sweet seed of madness were full grown?
Who hath not, when his wound less rawly looked,
Lightly tripped over the yet sunny fields?
What ominous garnitures have we not brook’d,
For the kind promise, that the spectre shields?
Else how much life must, vacant, pass man by,
Or seem the babblings of an uncrude mind:
How poor the pageant of the world must die
In uncongenial souls, of purpose blind:
Sooner than such I’d the light insect be,
Whose little summer world is revelry.