It is the morning star, arising slow 
Out of yon hill?s dark bulk, as she were born 
Of its desire for day; then glides she forth 
And into the dim sky, there leaving still 
A whiteness in her wake that whitens more 
As she ascends, till all the gloomy woods 
Are touched along their multiformous lines 
By a faint gleaming azure, creeping on: 
A few thin stripes of fleecy clouds lie long 
And motionless above the eastern steeps, 
Like threads of silver lace; till suddenly, 
Out from the flushing centre to the ends 
On either hand, their lustrous layers become 
Dipt all in crimson streaked with pink and gold; 
And then at last are edged as with a band 
Of crystal all on fire. Meanwhile the stars, 
Those golden children of eternity, 
Have all withdrawn within the Invisible; 
That skiey gleam and azure prevalence 
Which first bespoke the dawn works out and down 
Ev?n to the grassy ground; till all the trees, 
Clearly defined to their minutest sprays, 
Stand in unspeakable beauty. Long before 
The sun himself is seen, off towards the west 
A range of mighty summits more and more 
Blaze each like a huge cresset in the keen 
Clear atmosphere. As if the spirit of light 
Advancing swiftly thence, and eastward still, 
Kept kindling them in quick succession, till 
The universal company of cones 
And peaks pyramidal stand burning all 
With rosy fires like a wide-ranging circ 
Of mighty altars, where the spirit of man 
Can feel the presence of that greater soul 
Which makes all nature, and of which itself 
Is but an effluence, however far 
Projected, or detached by tract of time; 
Even as a sunbeam?s fountain in the sun, 
Whether it hit the earth or glance away 
Into infinitude?shooting on for ever.