Imagination

Not seldom will the sun, when westering slow,
Turn his bright eye upon a fronting train
Of clouds, and from the mists and falling rain
Weave suddenly his broad and gorgeous bow.
The stainless air puts on a purple glow,
The beauteous secrecies of light are plain,
And from these stripes the swimming vapours gain
More splendour than the orient skies can show.
Such is Imagination, and the power
Which peoples Nature with its glorious dreams;
Which sprinkles everywhere its golden shower.
And to the fine-eyed poet, in what seems
His vacant but his visionary hour.
Tints every cloud with mild auroral gleams.