—The air is fill’d with sleep,
With the stream’s whisper, and the citron’s breath;
The fix’d and solemn stars
Gleam through my dungeon-bars—
Wake, rushing winds! this breezeless calm is death!
Ye watch-fires of the skies!
The stillness of your eyes
Looks too intensely through my troubled soul;
I feel this weight of rest
An earth-load on my breast—