Lo! in the vales, where wandering rivulets run, The fleecy mists shine gilded in the sun, Spread their loose folds, till now the lagging gale, Unfurls no more its lightly skimming sail; But through the hoary flakes, that fall like snow, Gleams in ethereal hue the watery bow. 'Tis ancient silence, robed in thistle down, Whose snowy locks its fairy circles crown; His vesture moves not, as he hovers lone, While curling fogs compose his airy throne; Serenely still, self-pois'd, he rests on high, And soothes each infant breeze that fans the sky. The mists ascend; -- the mountains scarce are free, Like islands floating in a billowy sea; While on their chalky summits glimmering dance The sun's last rays across the gray expanse: As sink the hills in waves that round them grow, The hoary surges scale the cliff's tall brow; The fleecy billows o'er its head are hurl'd, As ocean once embraced the prostrate world. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A CHILD'S THOUGHT OF GOD by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING WHEN I'M KILLED by ROBERT RANKE GRAVES THE SUPPLIANT by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON SOME EYES CONDEMN by PHILIP EDWARD THOMAS THE FROGS: AN 'AESCHYLEAN' CHORUS by ARISTOPHANES |