Of late I climb’d a lonely height

And watch’d the moon-streak’d clouds in flight,

Whose forms fantastic reel’d and whirl’d

Like genii of a spectral world.

Thin cirri veil’d the silv’ry dome

And waver’d like the ocean foam,

While shapes of darker, heavier kind

Scudded before a daemon wind.

Methought the churning vapours took

Now and anon a fearsome look,

As if admist the fog and blur

March’d figures known and sinister.

From west to east the things advanc’d —

A mocking train that leap’d and danc’d

Like Bacchanals with joined hands

In endless file thro’ airy lands.

Aërial mutt’rings, dimly heard,

The comfort of my spirit stirr’d

With hideous thoughts, that bade me screen

My sight from the portentous scene.

“Yon fleeing mists,” the murmurs said,

“Are ghost of hopes, deny’d and dead.”