Till they fail, as I am failing,
  Dizzy, lost, yet unbewailing!

ASIA
  My soul is an enchanted boat,
  Which, like a sleeping swan, doth float
  Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing;
  And thine doth like an angel sit
  Beside a helm conducting it,
  Whilst all the winds with melody are ringing.
  It seems to float ever, forever,
  Upon that many-winding river,
  Between mountains, woods, abysses,
  A paradise of wildernesses!
  Till, like one in slumber bound,
  Borne to the ocean, I float down, around,
  Into a sea profound of ever-spreading sound.

  Meanwhile thy spirit lifts its pinions
  In music's most serene dominions;
  Catching the winds that fan that happy heaven.
  And we sail on, away, afar,
  Without a course, without a star,
  But, by the instinct of sweet music driven;