XV.
             
        To-night the winds begin to rise
            And roar from yonder dropping day:
            The last red leaf is whirl’d away,
        The rooks are blown about the skies;

        The forest crack’d, the waters curl’d,
            The cattle huddled on the lea;
            And wildly dash’d on tower and tree
        The sunbeam strikes along the world:

        And but for fancies, which aver
            That all thy motions gently pass
            Athwart a plane of molten glass,
        I scarce could brook the strain and stir

        That makes the barren branches loud;
            And but for fear it is not so,
            The wild unrest that lives in woe
        Would dote and pore on yonder cloud

        That rises upward always higher,
            And onward drags a labouring breast,
            And topples round the dreary west,
        A looming bastion fringed with fire.