Here, in the heart of the hills, I lie,

Nothing but me 'twixt earth and sky—

An amethyst and an emerald stone

Hung and hollowed for me alone!

Is it a dream, or can it be

That there is life apart from me?—

A larger world than the circling bound

Of light and color that lap me round?

Drowsily, dully, through my brain,

Like some recurrent, vague refrain,

A world of fancy comes and goes—

Shadowy pleasures, shadowy woes.

Spectral toils and troubles seem

Fashioned out of this foolish dream:

Round my charmèd quiet creep

Phantom creatures that laugh and weep.

Nay, I know they are meaningless,

Visions of utter idleness:

Nothing was, nor ever will be,

Save the hills and the heavens and me.