A Question.
Pale Moon, whose tranquil orb resplendent sails
The ethereal main; thy curved prow
For ever braving the celestial gales,
Serene and slow:
Myriads of Stars, that ever dot the blue
Great vault of heaven: eyes that keep
Eternal watch, unshaken, strong, and true,
Yet never sleep:
Ye southern Zephyrs, redolent with balm
Of myrtle, orange, and the rose;
Blowing from islands where the fronded palm
In beauty grows:
Wind of the North, whose trumpet voice can shake
The shuddering echoes of the cave;
Storm-born, blast-driven; thou, whose breath doth make
The mighty wave:
Perpetual Fire, whose never-dying flame
Consumes the glowing heart of earth,
Until a wide destruction shall proclaim
A second birth:
Tell me, oh! mighty concourse, have ye seen
In all this great infinity
Of worlds unborn and planets that have been,
A place for me?