Edward Thurlow - The Fancy lyrics

Sometimes upon the hills in thought I stand And travel on the wings of fantasy; With what delight the globéd earth is spanned, With how soft foot the wingéd moments fly! A silent dream environs me around; I am not what I am; I am not here; But yet I walk upon my wonted ground, But yet the woods unto my sight appear; The woods, in which from morn till mournful eve I wander, and would shroud myself from day; And envy even the fox, whom caves receive And fast secure him from the glaring ray; This body and machine, indeed, is here; But flies my soul into a higher sphere.