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 any thing - 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.