Whispering unimaginable things, And dying on the streams of dew serene, Which feed the unmown meads with ever during green. And the green Paradise which western waves Embosom in their ever-wailing sweep, Talking of freedom to their tongueless caves, Or to the spirits which within them keep A record of the wrongs which, though they sleep, Die not, but dream of retribution, heard His hymns, and echoing them from steep to steep, Kept And then came one of sweet and earnest looks, Whose soft smiles to his dark and night like eyes Were as the clear and ever-living brooks Are to the obscure fountains whence they rise, Showing how pure they are: a Paradise Of happy truth upon his forehead low Of earth-awakening morn upon the brow Of star-deserted heaven, while ocean gleams below. His song, though very sweet, was low and faint, A simple strain A mighty Phantasm, half-concealed In darkness of his own exceeding light, Which clothed his awful presence unrevealed, Charioted on the night Of thunder-smoke, whose skirts were chrysolite. And like a sudden meteor, which outstrips The splendour-wingèd chariot of the sun, eclipse The armies of the golden stars, each one Pavilioned in its tent of light—all strewn Over the chasms of blue night |