Might lose his way for centuries; and there,

In wreathèd light, and fulgors all convolved,

A rout of green, enormous moons ascend,

With rays that like a shivering venom run

On inch-long swords of lizard-fang.

Surveyed

From this my throne, as from a central sun,

The pageantries of worlds and cycles pass;

Forgotten splendours, dream by dream unfold,

Like tapestry, and vanish; violet suns,