Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought

To a ferver by the moon beam that hangs o’er,

But I will half believe that wild light fraught

With more of sov’reignty than ancient lore

Hath ever told – or is it of a thought

The unembodied essence, and no more

That with a quick’ning spell doth o’er us pass

As dew of the night-time, o’er the summer grass?