Fairyland

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.