But their red orbs, without beam,

To thy weariness shall seem

As a burning and a fever

Which would cling to thee for ever.

Ⅳ

Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish—Now are visions ne'er to vanish—

From thy spirit shall they pass

No more—like dew-drop from the grass.

Ⅴ

The breeze—the breath of God—is still—And the mist upon the hill

Shadowy—shadowy—yet unbroken,

Is a symbol and a token—

How it hangs upon the trees,

A mystery of mysteries!—

(1827)