O Lady Flora, let me speak: a pleasant hour has passed away
While, dreaming on your damask cheek, the dewy sister-eyelids lay.
As by the lattice you reclined, I went thro’ many wayward moods
To see you dreaming–and, behind, a summer crisp with shining woods.
And I too dream’d, until at last across my fancy, brooding warm,
The reflex of a legend past, and loosely settled into form.
And would you have the thought I had, and see the vision that I saw,
Then take the broidery-frame, and add a crimson to the quaint Macaw,
And I will tell it. Turn your face, nor look with that too-earnest eye–
The rhymes are dazzled from their place and order’d words asunder fly.