When he feels that he moves with that phantom throng,
Till those icy turrets are over his head;
And the torrent’s roar, as they enter, seems
Like a drowsy murmur heard in dreams.
The glittering threshold is scarcely passed,
When there gathers and wraps him round
A thick white twilight, sullen and vast,
In which there is neither form nor sound;
The phantoms, the glory, vanish all,
With the dying voice of the waterfall.