LXX.
             
        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.