Ideality

The Vale of Tempe had in vain been fair, Green Ida never deemed the nurse of Jove; Each fabled stream, beneath its covert grove, Had idly murmured to the idle air; The shaggy wolf had kept his horrid lair In Delphi’s cell, and old Trophonius’ cave, And the wild wailing of the Ionian wave Had never blended with the sweet despair Of Sappho’s death-song: if the sight inspired Saw only what the visual organs show, If heaven-born phantasy no more required Than what within the sphere of sense may grow. The beauty to perceive of earthly things, The mounting soul must heavenward prune her wings.