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In life there's naught
That's true, but Thought;
The Things we build on do but seem,
For Ear and Eye
Will cheat and lie.
The World of Sense is all a dream.


I dreamed: Air-free,
I seemed to be
A Butterfly. The fragrant bower
Was my delight;
In vagrant flight
I wavered on from bud to flower.


I had no thought
That made me aught
Than what I seemed in Nature's plan--
The Rose's guest,
The Swallow's quest.
I woke--and found myself a Man.


Yet--was I then
A Man of men
Who joined in dreams the insect clan?
Or now am I
A Butterfly
Who merely dreams that he's a Man?