And teeming swarms

4

 Of creatures gauzy dim

 That cloud the dusk, and painted fish that swim,

 At the weaver’s whim;

 And wonderful birds that wheel and hang in the air;

 And beings with hair,

 And moving eyes in the face,

 And white bone teeth and hideous grins, who race

 From place to place;

 They build great temples to their John-a-nod,

 And fume and plod

 To deck themselves with gold,

 And paint themselves like chattels to be sold,

 Then turn to mould.

 Sometimes they seem almost as real as I;

 I hear them sigh;

 I see them bow with grief,

 Or dance for joy like an aspen leaf;

 But that is brief.

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