Edgar Allan Poe

          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 anything-
          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.