A Midnight, Black with Mist, obscures the Sky;
I feel, within my Marrow, the weight,
Of it's broad, and brooding, Shadow. All in vain,
Turns the tired Eye, in search of Starry Body; no Orb
Pierces the pitchy Veil; no Crimson blaze,
From Houses, lit by the cheerful Lamp,
Fringes of Flowers, ascend the Grass.
No sound of Life is heard, no Urban hum,
Nor measured tread of Trucks, along Highways,
Nor rush of Wings, while, on the Face of Earth,
I lie in Fields, and Listen for Her mighty Voice:
A Voice of many Accents: Sent up, from Brooks,
That wander the gloom, from Woods unseen,
Swayed by the sweeping of the tides of Air,
From jagged chasms, where Darkness dwells by Day,
And Hollows of the distant Hills,
And Sands that line the Seaside, stretching Infinite,
Into the Bleak: a Melancholy din!