The day retires, the mists of night are spread
Slowly o’er nature, darkening as they rise;
The gloomy clouds are gathering round our heads,
And twilight’s latest glimmering gently dies:
The stars awake in heaven’s abyss of blue;
Say, who can count them?—Who can sound it?—Who?
Even as a sand in the majestic sea,
A diamond-atom on a hill of snow,
A spark amidst a Hecla’s majesty,
An unseen mote where maddened whirlwinds blow,