Fairy-Land

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.