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.