Wise Man

Twice have I dreamed it in a morning dream, Now nothing serves my pupils but to come With a like thought. Reason is growing dim; A moment more and Frenzy will beat his drum And laugh aloud and scream; And I must dance in the dream. No, no, but it is like a hawk, a hawk of the air, It has swooped down--and this swoop makes the third-- And what can I, but tremble like a bird?