O weaver, will you not forget
To spin your airy web and slight?
Too nimble Dancer, dancing yet
On the thin meshes of the night!
Beneath my feet your ropes are set,
You hang the stars within my brain; –
I too could weave a wiry net
And dance upon a thoughtful chain,
But that, in pauses, I have heard
Dim sounds that mock the polished mind,
Have seen the lovely and absurd
Things of the country of the blind;
A country where a flaming word
Found by an idiot in his sleep
Is yet the peering poised white bird
That scans the pavement of the deep.