How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks...

How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks

The wayward brain, to saunter through a wood!

An old place, full of many a lovely brood,

Tall trees, green arbours, and ground-flowers in flocks;

And wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn stocks,

Like a bold Girl, who plays her agile pranks

At Wakes and Fairs with wandering Mountebanks,—

When she stands cresting the Clown's head, and mocks

The crowd beneath her. Verily I think,

Such place to me is sometimes like a dream

Or map of the whole world: thoughts, link by link,

Enter through ears and eyesight, with such gleam

Of all things, that at last in fear I shrink,

And leap at once from the delicious stream.