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.