There may be chaos still around the world, 
This little world that in my thinking lies; 
For mine own bosom is the paradise 
Where all my life's fair visions are unfurled. 
Within my nature's shell I slumber curled, 
Unmindful of the changing outer skies, 
Where now, perchance, some new-born Eros flies, 
Or some old Cronos from his throne is hurled. 
I heed them not; or if the subtle night 
Haunt me with deities I never saw, 
I soon mine eyelid's drowsy curtain draw 
To hide their myriad faces from my sight. 
They threat in vain; the whirlwind cannot awe 
A happy snow-flake dancing in the flaw.