It is the morning star, arising slow br Out of yon hill’s dark bulk, as she were born br Of its desire for day; then glides she forth br And into the dim sky, there leaving still br A whiteness in her wake that whitens more br As she ascends, till all the gloomy woods br Are touched along their multiformous lines br By a faint gleaming azure, creeping on: br A few thin stripes of fleecy clouds lie long br And motionless above the eastern steeps, br Like threads of silver lace; till suddenly, br Out from the flushing centre to the ends br On either hand, their lustrous layers become br Dipt all in crimson streaked with pink and gold; br And then at last are edged as with a band br Of crystal all on fire. Meanwhile the stars, br Those golden children of eternity, br Have all withdrawn within the Invisible; br That skiey gleam and azure prevalence br Which first bespoke the dawn works out and down br Ev’n to the grassy ground; till all the trees, br Clearly defined to their minutest sprays, br Stand in unspeakable beauty. Long before br The sun himself is seen, off towards the west br A range of mighty summits more and more br Blaze each like a huge cresset in the keen br Clear atmosphere. As if the spirit of light br Advancing swiftly thence, and eastward still, br Kept kindling them in quick succession, till br The universal company of cones br And peaks pyramidal stand burning all br With rosy fires like a wide-ranging circ br Of mighty altars, where the spirit of man br Can feel the presence of that greater soul br Which makes all nature, and of which itself br Is but an effluence, however far br Projected, or detached by tract of time; br Even as a sunbeam’s fountain in the sun, br Whether it hit the earth or glance away br Into infinitude—shooting on for ever.