What occult Circe of the hours of sleep
Mixeth the Cup of Dreams with potent art?
How doth the sorceress cunningly impart
To it such wondrous virtues, and where steep
That powerful potion? Opium poppies' brew
Nor hasheesh from far India's mystic land
Have not such properties, nor can command
Visions of more fantastic form and hue.
Pleasure and pain in mingling mystical
Are in that cup. There past and present meet,
With pageantry of earthly sights and sounds.
Abysses bottomless, heights that appall
With plainlands infinite about their feet,
And seas horizonless, lie in its bounds.