In swift devouring ecstasy
each toil in turn was done;
I had done lying on the lawn
three minutes after one.

For me, as Mr. Wordsworth says,
the duties shine like stars
I formed my uncle's character,
decreasing his cigars.

But could my kind engross me? No!
Stern Art -- what sons escape her?
Soon I was drawing Gladstone's nose
on scraps of blotting paper.

Then on -- to play one-fingered tunes
upon my aunt's piano.
In short, I have a headlong soul,
I much resemble Hanno.

(Forgive the entrance of the not
too cogent Carthaginian.
It may have been to make a rhyme;
I lean to that opinion.)

Then my great work of book research
till dusk I took in hand --
the forming of a final, sound
opinion on "The Strand."

But when I quenched the midnight oil,
and closed "The Referee,"
whose thirty volumes folio
I take to bed with me,

I had a rather funny dream,
intense, that is, and mystic;
I dreamed that, with one leap and yell,
the world became artistic.

The Shopmen, when their souls were still,
declined to open shops --
and Cooks recorded frames of mind
in sad and subtle chops.

The stars were weary of routine
the trees in the plantation
were growing every fruit at once,
in search of a sensation.

The moon went for a moonlight stroll,
and tried to be a bard,
and gazed enraptured at itself;
I left it trying hard.

The sea had nothing but a mood
of "vague Ironic gloom,"
with which t'explaln its presence in
my upstairs drawing-room.

The sun had read a little book
that struck him with a notion
he drowned himself and all his fires
deep in the hissing ocean.

Then all was dark, lawless, and lost
I heard great devilish wings:
I knew that Art had won, and snapt
the Covenant of Things.

I cried aloud, and I awoke,
new labours in my head.
I set my teeth, and manfully
began to lie in bed.

Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,
so I my life conduct.
Each morning see some task begun,
each evening see it chucked.

But still, in sudden moods of dusk,
I hear those great weird wings,
feel vaguely thankful to the vast
stupidity of things.