Bring me to some waste, whose stream’s Lethean trail,
Scarce stirs its islands of monotonous grass;
Where circling hills heal their huge tattered mail,
With foliage fringing all the mountain pass;
Where the quire that sings, deepens the deadly lull;
Where Time responds, chiming a sullen note;
Where Phoebus, mellowing, blends a glory dull,
With shades that on the wings of darkness float;
Where a gloom of mystery wears strange, luminous, shapes,
Shadowing unholy, ghastly, wizard forms;
Growing into the pulsing life, whose pregnance apes
Fierce fascinations, foul unspeaking storms;
Where, in brief space, myriads of demons urge
One quivering form to Hell’s red hideous verge.