"Such are the common people of the soul, Of whom the stars write not in their bright scroll. These, when the sunshine at the noontide makes Golden confusion in the forest brakes, See no sweet shadows gliding o’er the grass, Which seems to fill with wild flowers as they pass ; These, from the twilight music of the fount Ask not its secret and its sweet account ; These never seek to read the chronicle Which hides within the hyacinth’s dim-lit bell: They know not of the poetry which lies Upon the summer rose’s languid eyes; They have no spiritual visitings elysian, They dream no dreamings, and they see no vision."