I cannot see the features right,
⁠When on the gloom I strive to paint
⁠The face I know; the hues are faint
And mix with hollow masks of night:

Cloud-towers by ghostly masons wrought,
⁠A gulf that ever shuts and gapes,
⁠A hand that points, and palled shapes
In shadowy thoroughfares of thought;

And crowds that stream from yawning doors,
⁠And shoals of pucker'd faces drive;
⁠Dark bulks that tumble half alive,
And lazy lengths on boundless shores:

Till all at once beyond the will
⁠I hear a wizard music roll,
⁠And thro' a lattice on the soul
Looks thy fair face and makes it still.