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 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP by ROBERT BROWNING SING-SONG; A NURSERY RHYME BOOK: 48 by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI A DEDICATION by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH HIS MOTHER'S FACE by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING A HYMN FOR EASTER DAY by JOHN BYROM LINES ON HEARING THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL by GEORGE GORDON BYRON |