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The Fancy
The Fancy

Sometimes upon the hills in thought I stand
And travel on the wings of fantasy;
With what delight the globéd earth is spanned,
With how soft foot the wingéd moments fly!
A silent dream environs me around;
I am not what I am; I am not here;
But yet I walk upon my wonted ground,
But yet the woods unto my sight appear;
The woods, in which from morn till mournful eve
I wander, and would shroud myself from day;
And envy even the fox, whom caves receive
And fast secure him from the glaring ray;
This body and machine, indeed, is here;
But flies my soul into a higher sphere.

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