Dim vales— and shadowy floods –
And cloudy—looking woods,
Whose forms we can't discover
For the tears that drip all over.
Huge moons there wax and wane –
Again – again – again –
Every moment of the night –
Forever changing places –
And they put out the star—light
With the breath from their pale faces;
About twelve by the moon—dial,
One, more filmy than the rest
[A sort which, upon trial,
They have found to be the best]
Comes down – still down – and down,
With its centre on the crown
Of a mountain's eminence,
While its wide circumference
In easy drapery falls
Over hamlets, over halls,
Wherever they may be –
O'er the strange woods – o'er the sea –
Over spirits on the wing –
Over every drowsy thing –
And buries them up quite
In a labyrinth of light –
And then, how deep! – O! deep!
Is the passion of their sleep!
In the morning they arise,
And their moony covering
Is soaring in the skies,
With the tempests as they toss,
Like – almost anything –
Or a yellow Albatross.
They use that moon no more
For the same end as before –
Videlicet, a tent –
Which I think extravagant:
Its atomies, however,
Into a shower dissever,
Of which those butterflies
Of Earth, who seek the skies,
And so come down again,
[The unbelieving things!]
Have brought a specimen
Upon their quivering wings.
1829                1845