If so my fancy idly clings
To notions far away,
And longs to roam for common things
All round her every day,
Right idle would the journey be
To leave one's home so far,
And see the moon I now can see
And every little star.
And have they there a night and day,
And common counted hours?
And do they see so far away
This very moon of ours?
I mark him climb above the trees
With one small cousin star,
And think me in my reveries—
He cannot shine so far.
And o'er his face that ancient man
Will ever stooping be;
What else he in no sort of plan
Could ever get to see.
The poets in the tales they tell
And with their happy powers
Have made lands where their fancies dwell
Seem better lands than ours.