Could you believe this?

It is no imagination, but a reality, that those of whom you write—

Of whom poets weave solemn and grand songs—

Fairies who are pictured in vision, for children to read—

These become realities in spirit-life, and are clothed with spirit-substance, peopling all the air with rich and varied images. 

Love itself, most populous of the peopled cities of the skies, and deities, as it were, of usurping splendour, come thronging around one, as one awakens from the dream of life. 

Loves, told long ago, and seemingly half buried beneath the withering hopes of manhood, come up and claim again their recognition. 

Friendship, that in the crowded and busy mart of human things has been well nigh forgotten, come up again, as a living image and ask for its own return. 

All love survives—

How it peoples the space that elsewise would seem infinite and void!