Upon whose silent breast the barques
Flit swift and noiselessly; as sparks
Blown from magician’s forge; as mote
Of city dust; as things which float
Deep down some ancient forest’s shade,
Where, peering through its dusky glade,
Circles on circles eddying start,
And still the teeming atoms part
And meet, and part again, until
The thronging myriads crowding still