II
Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought
To a fever by the moonbeam that hangs oвАЩer,
But I will half believe that wild light fraught
With more of sovereignty than ancient lore
Hath ever toldвБ†вАФor is it of a thought
The unembodied essence, and no more
That with a quickening spell doth oвАЩer us pass
As dew of the night-time, oвАЩer the summer grass?