XLI.
Reading edition
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 Phœbus, 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.