He thought it paradise with Laura there,
Heaven on earth, the old Romantic! – who
Nevertheless pretended he was wrong:
‘Cut off from things… not where I really was.’
Should one believe the vision, or the real
Without the magnetizing glimpse, the fine,
Foolish persuasion of another world?
‘How came I here, and when?’ His lady’s limbs,
Sweet smile, angelic bosom, and the rest
Were his creation for the sake of truth,
The truth that heaven is here and unattained.
His well-read Seneca had said as much,
Or more, of places where gigantic trees,
Grottos whose vaults hold mountains in suspense,
Or sudden waters gushing from the rock,
As at Vaucluse, were signs a god was present.
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