The Bright Incarnate Spirit Of The Morn.

In Vain Would Science Scan And Trace Firmly Her Aspect. All The While, There Gleams Upon Her Far-off Face A Vague Unfathomable Smile.

In My Song You Catch At Times Note Sweeter Far Than Mine, And In The Tangle Of My Rhymes Can Scent The Eglantine.

Pale January Lay In Its Cradle Day By Day Dead Or Living, Hard To Say.

Thought, Stumbling, Plods Past Fallen Temples, Vanished Gods, Altars Unincensed, Fanes Undecked, Eternal Systems Flown Or Wrecked; Through Trackless Centuries That Grant To The Poor Trudge Refreshment Scant, Age After Age, Pants On To Find A Melting Mirage Of The Mind.

Imagination In Poetry, As Distinguished From Mere Fancy Is The Transfiguring Of The Real Or Actual To The Ideal.