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| SO oft our hearts, belovèd lute, | |
| In blossomy haunts of song are mute; | |
| So long we pore, ’mid murmurings dull, | |
| O’er loveliness unutterable. | |
| So vain is all our passion strong! | 5 |
| The dream is lovelier than the song. | |
| |
| The rose thought, touched by words, doth turn | |
| Wan ashes. Still, from memory’s urn, | |
| The lingering blossoms tenderly | |
| Refute our wilding minstrelsy. | 10 |
| Alas! we work but beauty’s wrong! | |
| The dream is lovelier than the song. | |
| |
| Yearned Shelley o’er the golden flame? | |
| Left Keats for beauty’s lure, a name | |
| But “writ in water”? Woe is me! | 15 |
| To grieve o’er flowerful faëry. | |
| My Phasian doves are flown so long— | |
| The dream is lovelier than the song! | |
| |
| Ah, though we build a bower of dawn, | |
| The golden-wingèd bird is gone, | 20 |
| And morn may gild, through shimmering leaves, | |
| Only the swallow-twittering eaves. | |
| What art may house or gold prolong | |
| A dream far lovelier than a song? | |
| |
| The lilting witchery, the unrest | 25 |
| Of wingèd dreams, is in our breast; | |
| But ever dear Fulfilment’s eyes | |
| Gaze otherward. The long-sought prize, | |
| My lute, must to the gods belong. | |
| The dream is lovelier than the song. | 30 |
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