A Question.

Pale Moon, whose tranquil orb resplendent sails

The ethereal main; thy curved prow

For ever braving the celestial gales,

Serene and slow:

Myriads of Stars, that ever dot the blue

Great vault of heaven: eyes that keep

Eternal watch, unshaken, strong, and true,

Yet never sleep:

Ye southern Zephyrs, redolent with balm

Of myrtle, orange, and the rose;

Blowing from islands where the fronded palm

In beauty grows:

Wind of the North, whose trumpet voice can shake

The shuddering echoes of the cave;

Storm-born, blast-driven; thou, whose breath doth make

The mighty wave:

Perpetual Fire, whose never-dying flame

Consumes the glowing heart of earth,

Until a wide destruction shall proclaim

A second birth:

Tell me, oh! mighty concourse, have ye seen

In all this great infinity

Of worlds unborn and planets that have been,

A place for me?