Lxxxviii

A poet never dreams: We prose-folk always do: we miss the proper duct For thoughts on things unseen, which stagnate and obstruct The system, therefore; mind, sound in a body sane, Keeps thoughts apart from facts, and to one flowing vein Confines its sense of that which is not, but might be, And leaves the rest alone. What ghosts do poets see? What demons fear? what man or thing misapprehend? Unchecked, the channel 's flush, the fancy 's free to spend Its special self aright in manner, time and place. Never believe that who create the busy race O' the brain, bring poetry to birth, such act performed, Feel trouble them, the same, such residue as warmed My prosy blood, this morn,--intrusive fancies, meant For outbreak and escape by quite another vent! Whence follows that, asleep, my dreamings oft exceed The bound. But you shall hear.