All Poets Dream, and Some Do Nothing More

All poets dream, and some do nothing more.
When you have turn'd this paper o'er,
Then you may tell me, if you please,
Which I resemble most of these.
One morning as outstretcht I lay,
Half-covered by the new-mown hay,
I saw a bird high over-head,
And round him many smaller fled.
To me he seem'd a hawk or kite,
The little birds (who should be in a fright,
Yet never are, as you must oft have found)
Flew many after, many round.
Unable at full stretch to keep
My eyes, they wearied into sleep:

And, soon as I had sank upon the grass,
I saw the large and little pass
All into other shapes; the great one grew
Like Time; like full-grown Loves the smaller dew;
All kept their course, as they had done before;
But soon the less quite vanisht; he, the great,
Moved on in slow and solemn state,
Until I thought at last he reacht the skies;
And then I opened (somewhat late) my eyes.