Run with me, elves, and lay me on that bed
Bud-strewn beneath my cirque of sister trees,
Wherethrough the young Moon hath embroiderèd
Faint soothing-spell in silver traceries;
Run with me, for I feel the need of dreams;
Earth palls, and naught is fair but that which seems.

Fashion thin horns of blossom-tubes and blow;
Tinkle the lucent pebbles of the rill;
Fetch me a mating bird to twitter low;
Spin sounds of night, fine-drawn, remote, and shrill,
And let that elfin whom I hold most dear
Whisper a certain name within mine ear.

Then, as I sleep, the very tender Moon
Ne'er dreamed such sport with her Endymion;
Nor any love-rapt mortal, late or soon,
Such snatch of rapture from the Immortals won
As I, that, waking, have become so dull,
But, in my dreams, so glad and beautiful.