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Poem	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- 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, (Never-contented things!) Have brought a specimen Upon their quivering wings.
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