Fairyland
Dim valesвБ†вАФand shadowy floodsвБ†вАФ
And cloudy-looking woods,
Whose forms we canвАЩt discover
For the tears that drip all over.
Huge moons there wax and waneвБ†вАФ
AgainвБ†вАФagainвБ†вАФagainвБ†вАФ
Every moment of the nightвБ†вАФ
Forever changing placesвБ†вАФ
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 downвБ†вАФstill downвБ†вАФand down
With its centre on the crown
Of a mountainвАЩs eminence,
While its wide circumference
In easy drapery falls
Over hamlets, over halls,
Wherever they may beвБ†вАФ
OвАЩer the strange woodsвБ†вАФoвАЩer the seaвБ†вАФ
Over spirits on the wingвБ†вАФ
Over every drowsy thingвБ†вАФ
And buries them up quite
In a labyrinth of lightвБ†вАФ
And then, how deep!вБ†вАФO, 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,
LikeвБ†вАФalmost anythingвБ†вАФ
Or a yellow Albatross.
They use that moon no more
For the same end as beforeвБ†вАФ
Videlicet a tentвБ†вАФ
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.