With the artful truth of mist.

[Pg 44]

With the Supermen of dreams,

Coming down the crystal streams;

In his fine unconscious eye—

Where his dreaming godheads lie;

All of Heaven in a sound—

Neither yet is wholly bound.

Lo! the painter dreams again,

In the minelands of his brain.

Lo! the sculptor dreams again,

In his blue marmorean brain.

Lo! the music dreams again,

In the silence of his brain.

Music names him not in words,

All that life and death engirds.

[Pg 45]

Singing lightning scintilant,

Sweeter ever than his want.

Keats the golden tongue of song.

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