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‘So knew I in that light’s severe excess
The presence of that Shape which on the stream 425
Moved, as I moved along the wilderness,

‘More dimly than a day-appearing dream,
The host of a forgotten form of sleep;
A light of heaven, whose half-extinguished beam

‘Through the sick day in which we wake to weep 430
Glimmers, for ever sought, for ever lost;
So did that shape its obscure tenour keep

‘Beside my path, as silent as a ghost;
But the new Vision, and the cold bright car,
With solemn speed and stunning music, crossed 435

‘The forest, and as if from some dread war
Triumphantly returning, the loud million
Fiercely extolled the fortune of her star.

‘A moving arch of victory, the vermilion
And green and azure plumes of Iris had 440
Built high over her wind-winged pavilion,

‘And underneath aethereal glory clad
The wilderness, and far before her flew
The tempest of the splendour, which forbade

‘Shadow to fall from leaf and stone; the crew 445
Seemed in that light, like atomies to dance
Within a sunbeam;–some upon the new

‘Embroidery of flowers, that did enhance
The grassy vesture of the desert, played,
Forgetful of the chariot’s swift advance; 450

‘Others stood gazing, till within the shade
Of the great mountain its light left them dim;
Others outspeeded it; and others made

‘Circles around it, like the clouds that swim
Round the high moon in a bright sea of air; 455
And more did follow, with exulting hymn,

‘The chariot and the captives fettered there:–
But all like bubbles on an eddying flood
Fell into the same track at last, and were

‘Borne onward.–I among the multitude 460
Was swept–me, sweetest flowers delayed not long;
Me, not the shadow nor the solitude;

‘Me, not that falling stream’s Lethean song;
Me, not the phantom of that early Form
Which moved upon its motion–but among 465

‘The thickest billows of that living storm
I plunged, and bared my bosom to the clime
Of that cold light, whose airs too soon deform.

‘Before the chariot had begun to climb
The opposing steep of that mysterious dell, 470
Behold a wonder worthy of the rhyme

‘Of him who from the lowest depths of hell,
Through every paradise and through all glory,
Love led serene, and who returned to tell

‘The words of hate and awe; the wondrous story 475
How all things are transfigured except Love;
For deaf as is a sea, which wrath makes hoary,

‘The world can hear not the sweet notes that move
The sphere whose light is melody to lovers–
A wonder worthy of his rhyme.–The grove 480

‘Grew dense with shadows to its inmost covers,
The earth was gray with phantoms, and the air
Was peopled with dim forms, as when there hovers

‘A flock of vampire-bats before the glare
Of the tropic sun, bringing, ere evening, 485
Strange night upon some Indian isle;–thus were