I cannot see the features right,
      When on the gloom I strive to paint
      The face I know; the hues are faint
And mix with hollow masks of night;

Cloud-towers by ghostly masons wrought,
      A gulf that ever shuts and gapes,
      A hand that points, and palled shapes
In shadowy thoroughfares of thought;

And crowds that stream from yawning doors,
      And shoals of pucker'd faces drive;
      Dark bulks that tumble half alive,
And lazy lengths on boundless shores;

Till all at once beyond the will
      I hear a wizard music roll,
      And thro' a lattice on the soul
Looks thy fair face and makes it still.


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Last modified 14 February 2010