doth she only seem to take
The touch of change in calm or storm;
But knows no more of transient form
In her deep self, than some dead lake
holds the shadow of a lark
Hung in the shadow of a heaven?
Or has the shock, so harshly given,
Confused me like the unhappy bark
strikes by night a craggy shelf,
And staggers blindly ere she sink?
And stunníd me from my power to think
And all my knowledge of myself;
made me that delirious man
Whose fancy fuses old and new,
And flashes into false and true,
And mingles all without a plan?