Book 4 — CCCXXIV THE POET'S DREAM
Reading edition
On a Poet's lips I slept Dreaming like a love-adept In the sound his breathing kept; Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses, But feeds on the aërial kisses Of shapes that haunt Thought's wildernesses. He will watch from dawn to gloom The lake-reflected sun illume The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom, Nor heed nor see what things they be— But from these create he can Forms more real than living Man, Nurslings of Immortality!
P. B. Shelley