Is by (the very source of gloom)

The motes, and dust, and flies,

On which it trembles and lies

Like joy upon sorrow!

O, when will come the morrow?

Isabel! do you not fear

The night and the wonders here?

Dim vales! and shadowy floods!

And cloudy-looking woods

Whose forms we can't discover

For the tears that drip all over!

Huge moons—see! wax and wane

Again—again—again—

Every moment of the night—

Forever changing places!

How they put out the starlight

With the breath from their pale faces!

Lo! one is coming down

With its centre on the crown

Of a mountain's eminence!

Down—still down—and down—

Now deep shall be—O deep!

The passion of our sleep!

For that wide circumference

In easy drapery falls

Drowsily over halls—

Over ruin'd walls—

Over waterfalls,

(Silent waterfalls!)

O'er the strange woods—o'er the sea—

Alas! over the sea!

(1831)