Dreams, visions, foolish echoings to the thought,
That homeless wanders for the thing it loves:
The fancies of man’s waking are so fraught
With folly, or philosophy that roves
It knows not where, that ’tis no marvel sleep
Should pass its coinage as the current dross:
Could man contain his dreamings in their keep,
How great a gain should balance little loss:
The world is wearied, to know why it plods
The equal tenour of a various way;
But half attends, smiles sometimes, sometimes nods
O’er its dissection, while its head is grey.
It clears the rubble from its own high-road,
And asks but truth, nor cares to increase its load.