Fairy-Land
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.
