* * *


If you trap the moment before its ripe

The tears of repentance youll certainly wipe

But if once you let the ripe moment go

You can never wipe off the tears of woe^[3]

        'Twas but a dream; a fond and foolish dream;

            The calenture of a delirious brain,

        Whose fever thirst creates the rushing stream.

            Now to the actual I awake again:

        The vision to my gaze one moment granted,

        Fades in its light away, and leaves me disenchanted....

        Why mounts my blood to cheek and brow,

            Like an ascending flame,

        Whene'er from careless lips I hear

            The accents of thy name?

 

        Why, when my idle fancy seeks

            Some pictured form to trace,

        Beneath my pencil still will grow
...

        As once I dreamed, methought I strayed

        Within a snow-clad mountain's shade;

        From whose far height the silence bore

        One charméd word, "Excelsior!"

 

        And, as upon my soul it fell,

        It bound me with a fearful spell;

        It shut the sweet vale...