Plagiarism: A sonnet

I had a dream that was not all a dream:
We were as clouds that veil the midnight moon
And goodly states and kingdoms had we seen;
And the world was ever with us--late and soon.
There is sweet music here that softer falls
upon the straits--on the French coast the light
changes, surprises--and God made it all!
Dim now, through misty panes and thick green light.
If but some vengeful god would call to me
for every tatter in its mortal dress
from ranches of isolation and busy griefs,
and make a welcome of indifference...
Or how can a poet's reach exceed her grasp
in an age of scum, spooned off the richer past?