Whence even now the [tumult of loud mirth]
[Was rife], and perfect in my listening ear;
[Yet nought but single darkness do I find].
What might this be? A thousand fantasies 205
Begin to throng into my memory,
Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dire,
And airy tongues that syllable men’s names
On sands and shores and desert wildernesses.
These thoughts [may startle well, but not astound] 210
The virtuous mind, that ever walks attended