HERE I am slave of visions. When noon heat 
Strikes the red walls, and their environ'd air 
Lies steep'd in sun; when not a creature dare 
Affront the fervour, from my dim retreat 
Where woof of leaves embowers a beechen seat, 
With chin on palm, and wide-set eyes I stare, 
Beyond the liquid quiver and the glare, 
Upon fair shapes that move on silent feet. 
Those Three strait-robed, and speechless as they pass, 
Come often, touch the lute, nor heed me more 
Than birds or shadows heed; that naked child 
Is dove-like Psyche slumbering in deep grass; 
Sleep, sleep,--he heeds thee not, yon Sylvan wild 
Munching the russet apple to its core.