I cannot even tell or call to mind,
It is a miracle so new, so rare.
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Mighty eagle! thou that soarest
And amid the light of morningLike a cloud of glory hiest,And when night descends defiestThe embattled tempests’ warning!
And like a dying lady, lean and pale,
Out of her chamber, led by the insaneAnd feeble wanderings of her fading brain,The moon arose up in the murky east,A white and shapeless mass.
To thirst and find no fill—to wail and wander
To feel the blood run through the veins and tingleWhere busy thought and blind sensation mingle;To nurse the image of unfelt caressesTill dim imagination just possessesThe half-created shadow, then all the nightSick…
As the sunrise to the night,
As the earthquake’s fiery flight,Ruining mountain solitudes,Everlasting Italy,Be those hopes and fears on thee.
I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
I bear light shade for the leaves when laidIn their noonday dreams.From my wings are shaken the dews that wakenThe sweet buds every one,When rocked to rest on their mother’s breast,As she dances about the sun.I wield the flail of the lashing hail,And whiten the green plains under,And then again I dissolve it in rain,And…
Unrisen splendour of the brightest sun,
Now beckoning thee out of thy misty throneCould thaw the clouds which wage an obscure warWith thy young brightness!