Within Fancy'S Halls I Sit, And Quaff Rich Draughts Of The Wine Of Song, And I Drink, And Drink, To The Very Brink Of Delirium Wild And Strong, Till I Lose All Sense Of The Outer World, And See Not The Human Throng. The Lyral Chords Of Each Rising Thought Are Swept By A Hand Unseen; And I Glide, And Glide, With My Music Bride, Where Few Spiritless Souls Have Been; And I Soar Afar On Wings Of Sound, With My Fair Aeolian Queen. Deep, Deeper Still, From The Springs Of Thought I Quaff, Till The Fount Is Dry; And I Climb, And Climb, To A Height Sublime, Up The Stars Of Some Lyric Sky, Where I Seem To Rise Upon Airs That Melt Into Song As They Pass By. Millennial Rounds Of Bliss I Live, Withdrawn From My Cumbrous Clay, As I Sweep, And Sweep, Through Infinite Deep On Deep Of That Starry Spray; Myself A Sound On Its World-Wide Round, A Tone On Its Spheral Way. And Wheresoe'Er Through The Wondrous Space My Soul Wings Its Noiseless Flight, On Their Astral Rounds Float Divinest Sounds, Unseen, Save By Spirit-Sight, Obeying Some Wise, Eternal Law, As Fixed As The Law Of Light. But, Oh, When My Cup Of Dainty Bliss Is Drained Of The Wine Of Song, How I Fall, And Fall, At The Sober Call Of The Body, That Waiteth Long To Hurry Me Back To Its Cares Terrene, And Earth'S Spiritless Human Throng.