The edge of the green wave whitely doth hiss

The edge of the green wave whitely doth hiss

Upon the wetted sand. I look, yet dream.

Surely reality cannot be this!

Somehow, somewhere this surely doth but seem!

The sky, the sea, this great extent disclosed

Of outward joy, this bulk of life we feel,

Is not something, but something interposed.

Only what in this is not this is real.

If this be to have sense, if to be awake

Be but to see this bright, great sleep of things,

For the rarer potion mine own dreams I'll take

And for truth commune with imaginings,

Holding a dream too bitter, a too fair curse,

This common sleep of men, the universe.

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