All those sharp fancies, by downlapsing thought

⁠Streamed onward, lost their edges, and did creep
Rolled on each other, rounded, smoothed, and brought
⁠Into the gulfs of sleep.

At last methought that I had wandered far

⁠In an old wood: freshwashed in coolest dew,
The maiden splendours of the morningstar
⁠Shook in the stedfast blue.

Enormous elmtree-boles did stoop and lean

⁠Upon the dusky brushwood underneath
Their broad curved branches, fledged with clearest green,
⁠New from its silken sheath.

The dim red morn had died, her journey done,

⁠And with dead lips smiled at the twilight plain,
Half-fall'n across the threshold of the sun,
⁠Never to rise again.