Not, to me, less lavish — though my dreams have been splendid —
Than dreams, have been the hours of the actual day:
Never, awaking, did I awake to say:
"Nothing could be like that," when a dream was ended.
Colours, in dream; ecstasy, in dream extended
Beyond the edge of sleep — these, in their way,
Approach, come even close, yet pause, yet stay,
In the high presence of request by its answer attended.
Music, and painting, poetry, love, and grief,
Had they been more intense, I could not have borne, —
Yet, not, I think, through stout endurance lacked;
Rather, because the budding and the falling leaf
Were one, and wonderful, — not to be torn
Apart: I ask of dream: seem like the fact.