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Then pealed the calm inexorable voice: Abolishing hope, cancelling life's golden truths, Fatal its accents smote the trembling air. That lovely world swam thin and frail, most like Some pearly evanescent farewell gleam On the faint verge of dusk in moonless eves. "Prisoner of Nature, many-visioned spirit, Thought's creature in the ideal's realm enjoying Thy unsubstantial immortality The subtle marvellous mind of man has feigned, This is the world from which thy yearnings came. When it would build eternity from the dust, Man's thought paints images illusion rounds; Prophesying glories it shall never see, It labours delicately among its dreams. Behold this fleeing of light-tasselled shapes, Aerial raiment of unbodied gods; A rapture of things that never can be born, Hope chants to hope a bright immortal choir; Cloud satisfies cloud, phantom to longing phantom Leans sweetly, sweetly is clasped or sweetly chased. This is the stuff from which the ideal is formed: Its builder is thought, its base the heart's desire, But nothing real answers to their call. The ideal dwells not in heaven, nor on the earth, A bright delirium of man's ardour of hope Drunk with the wine of its own fantasy. It is a brilliant shadow's dreamy trail. Thy vision's error builds the azure skies, Thy vision's error drew the rainbow's arch; 
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