At night, to his own dark fancies a prey, He lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way, Tormenting himself with his prickles.

For my part getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.

Some dreams we have are nothing else but dreams, Unnatural and full of contradictions; Yet others of our most romantic schemes Are something more than fictions.

Gold! gold! gold! gold! Bright and yellow, hard and cold!

And soon Their hushing dances languished to a stand, Like midnight leaves when, as the Zephyrs swoon, All on their drooping stems they sink unfanned.

Well, something must be done for May, The time is drawing nigh-- To figure in the Catalogue, And woo the public eye. Something I must invent and paint; But oh my wit is not Like one of those kind substantives That answer Who and What?