one of the most mysterious of semi-speculations is, one would suppose, that of one Mind's imagining into another - John Keats

His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead,
Unsceptred; and his realmless eyes were closed;

A thing of beauty is a joy forever.

For Poesy alone can tell her dreams,
With the fine spell of words alone can save
Imagination from the sable charm
And dumb enchantment. Who alive can say,
‘Thou art no Poet may’st not tell thy dreams?’
Since every man whose soul is not a clod
Hath visions, and would speak, if he had loved
And been well nurtured in his mother tongue.
Whether the dream now purpos’d to rehearse
Be poet’s or fanatic’s will be known
When this warm scribe my hand is in the grave.