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 —

Ev’ry moment of the night —

For ever changing places —

And they put out the star-light

With the breath from their pale faces; [page 70:]

About twelve by the moon-dial

One, more filmy than the rest

[A kind 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, and rich 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, [page 71:]

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,

(Never-contended things!)

Have brought a specimen

Upon their quivering wings.