O GLORIOUS Moth of moody phantasy, Fretting the mortal garment of the mind With passionate heat and cold perplexity Of sanguine thought, and feeling undefined; That prey'st on spirits sensitive, and frail, For the dim splendours of thy damask bloom— Leaving dull natures, in impervious mail Of commonplace, at leisure to consume! O, wingèd fancy, that with wasteful flame Our days mak'st briefer to make bright thy beam. O blessèd thief of time, whose theft none blame, Though life thou shorten by thy shadowy dream,— How should'st thou fear to haste this "fitful fever," That round the sacred Lamp circlest for ever! |