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 —

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, and rich halls,

Wherever they may be —

O’er the strange woods — o'er the sea —

Over spirits on the wing — [column 2:]

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 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

(The unbelieving things!)

Have brought a specimen

Upon their quivering wings.

P.