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.