THOUGHT.

Are the clouds that wander by
But the offspring of mine eye,
Born with every glance I cast,
Perishing when that is past?
And those thousand, thousand eyes,
Scattered through the twinkling
skies,

Do they draw their life from mine,
Or, of their own beauty shine?

Now I close my eyes, my ears,
And creation disappears;
Yet if I but speak the word,
All creation is restored.
Or-more wonderful — within,
New creations do begin;

Hues more bright and forms more rare,

Than reality doth wear,

Flash across my inward sense,
Born of the mind's omnipotence.

Soul! that all informest, say!
Shall these glories pass away?
Will those planets cease to blaze
When these eyes no longer gaze?
And the life of things be o'er,
When these pulses beat no more?

Thought! that in me works and lives,

Life to all things living gives,―
Art thou not thyself, perchance,
But the universe in trance?
A reflection inly flung

By that world thou fanciedst sprung
From thyself, thyself a dream,
Of the world's thinking thou the
theme?