That prose is a verse, and verse is a prose; convincing all, by demonstrating plain – poetic souls delight in prose insane - Lord Byron

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.

The mind which is immortal makes itself
Requital for its good or evil thoughts,
Is its own origin of ill and end,
And its own place and time; its innate sense,
When stripped of this mortality, derives
No colour from the fleeting things without,
But is absorb'd in sufferance or in joy,
Born from the knowledge of its own desert.

But he who seeks the flowers of truth,
Must quit the garden for the field.