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 face
    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—
    And then, how deep!— O, deep!
    Is the passion of their slee
    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 Albatros
    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 wing