An arm of Lethe, with a gentle flow Arising upward from the rock below, The palace moats, and o’er the pebbles creeps, And with soft murmurs calls the coming sleeps. Around its entry nodding poppies grow, And all cool simples that sweet rest bestow; Night from the plants their sleepy virtue drains, And, passing, sheds it on the silent plains. No door there was, the unguarded house to keep, On creaking hinges turn’d, to break his sleep.

But in the gloomy court was raised a bed, Stuff’d with black plumes, and on an ebon ’sted; Black was the covering too, where lay the god, And slept supine, his limbs display’d abroad; About his head fantastic visions fly, Which various images of things supply, And mock their forms, the leaves on trees not more, Nor bearded ears in fields, nor sands upon the shore.