Or an air-dissolved star
Mingling light and fragrance, far
From the curved horizon's bound
To the point of heaven's profound,
Fills the overflowing sky;
And the plains that silent lie
Underneath, the leaves unsodden

Where the infant frost has trodden
With his morning-wingèd feet,
Whose bright print is gleaming yet;
And the red and golden vines,
Piercing with their trellised lines
The rough, dark-skirted wilderness;
The dun and bladed grass no less,
Pointing from this hoary tower
In the windless air; the flower
Glimmering at my feet; the line
Of the olive-sandalled Apennine
In the south dimly islanded;

And the Alps, whose snows are spread
High between the clouds and sun;
And of living things each one;

Darkened this swift stream of song,

And my spirit which so long

Interpenetrated lie

By the glory of the sky:

Be it love, light, harmony,

Odour, or the soul of all

Which from heaven like dew doth fall,

Or the mind which feeds this verse

Peopling the lone universe.
Noon descends, and after noon
Autumn's evening meets me soon,
Leading the infantine moon,
And that one star, which to her
Almost seems to minister

Half the crimson light she brings

From the sunset's radiant springs: And the soft dreams of the morn,

(Which like wingèd winds had borne

To that silent isle, which lies

'Mid remembered agonies,

The frail bark of this lone being,)

Pass, to other sufferers fleeing,

And its ancient pilot, Pain,

Sits beside the helm again.

O, wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,

Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves

dead

Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O, thou, Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

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Yet wherefore? Quench within their burning bed

Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep
Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep;
For he is gone, where all things wise and
fair
Descend;

oh, dream not that the amorous Deep 25 Will yet restore him to the vital air; Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair.

Most musical of mourners, weep again!
Lament anew, Urania! He died, -
Who was the Sire of an immortal strain,
Blind, old, and lonely, when his country's
pride,

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