His forehead was a temple high,
Fit haunt for Dædal Poesy;
For flowers divine to blossom.
His spirit stalked in joyless gloom
Through autumn wolds, where never bloom
Was seen. Above, a sullen moon
Through flying rack was beaming;
The sighing winds their dirges blew,
The withered leaves in eddies flew,
Upon his brow the nightshade’s dew