Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering? - John Keats

No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasures
Than I began to think of rhymes and measures:
The air that floated by me seem'd to say
'Write! thou wilt never have a better day.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose.

Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music: — Do I wake or sleep?