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 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, 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; [page 137:]

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 any thing —

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

(Never-contented things!)

Have brought a specimen

Upon their quivering wings.