For my own part
I have never had a thought
Which I could not set down in words
With even more distinctness
Than that with which I conceived it
There is, however, a class of fancies
Of exquisite delicacy
Which are not thoughts
And to which, as yet, I have found it
Absolutely impossible to adapt to language
These fancies arise in the soul

Alas, how rarely
Only at epochs of most intense tranquility
When the bodily and mental health are in perfection
And at those mere points of time
Where the confines of the waking world
Blend with the world of dreams
And so I captured this fancy
Where all that we see or seem is but
A dream within a dream