I lately dreamt of an ideal form;
I thought to shape the mould after my mind;
I bore it through the crowd, and thought it warm;
I saw the shape, that struck my fancy blind:
Fool! whose presumption struggles to create
A beauty other than high nature uses;
Reckon thy function at a lowlier rate,
Raise thy poor pride to what herself infuses:
Then, if the glow of Nature’s life-blood thrill thee,
Then, draw the vision to a finer strain;
Then, purify, exalt, let beauty fill thee;
Imagination works not, then, in vain.
If here is aught, ’tis fashioned all from thee,
Lord of my love and of my minstrelsy.