Or
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
That
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
That
strikes by night a craggy shelf,
And staggers blindly ere she sink?
And stunn’d me from my power to think
And
all my knowledge of myself;
And
made me that delirious man
Whose fancy fuses old and new,
And flashes into false and true,
And
mingles all without a plan?