On the far horizon there br Heaps of cloudy darkness rest; br Though the wind is in the air br There is stupor east and west. br br For the sky no change is making, br Scarce we know it from the plain; br Droop its eyelids never waking, br Blinded by the misty rain; br br Save on high one little spot, br Round the baffled moon a space br Where the tumult ceaseth not: br Wildly goes the midnight race! br br And a joy doth rise in me br Upward gazing on the sight, br When I think that others see br In yon clouds a like delight; br br How perchance an aged man br Struggling with the wind and rain, br In the moonlight cold and wan br Feels his heart grow young again; br br As the cloudy rack goes by, br How the life-blood mantles up br Till the fountain deep and dry br Yields once more a sparkling cup. br br Or upon the gazing child br Cometh down a thought of glory br Which will keep him undefiled br Till his head is old and hoary. br br For it may be he hath woke br And hath raised his fair young form; br Strangely on his eyes have broke br All the splendours of the storm; br br And his young soul forth doth leap br With the storm-clouds in the moon; br And his heart the light will keep br Though the vision passeth soon. br br Thus a joy hath often laughed br On my soul from other skies, br Bearing on its wings a draught br From the wells of Paradise, br br For that not to me alone br Comes a splendour out of fear; br Where the light of heaven hath shone br There is glory far and near.