THE POOL

My soul is like a lake, whose waters glass

Stars, and the silver clouds which uncontrolled

Sail through the heavens, and the hills which fold

Its valley in a peace, tall reeds, and grass,

And all the wandering flights of birds, that pass

Through the bright air; and, in itself, doth hold

Naiads with smooth white limbs and hair of gold:

So is my dreaming soul. And yet, alas!

It holds but visions, unsubstantial things.

Transient, momentary; and the feet

Of winds that smite the waters, blur the whole.

Shattering with the hurrying pulse of wings

That crystal quiet, which hath grown so sweet

With fragile reveries. Such is my soul.