Wide-spreading planes on the brow of the mountain rest on the sky.
And aback of the headland, and sloped therefrom away from the shore
Is a glen in a hollow: therein is a cave, even Hades’ Door,
With forest and rocks overroofed, and thereout an icy breath,
Chill-blowing unceasingly up from unfathomed abysses of death,
Freezeth the dews evermore, neither melteth the glistering rime
From the leaves, till the hour when the sun to his noonday height doth climb.
And o’er that headland grim doth silence never brood, {740}
But it murmureth ever with sound confused of the booming flood
And of leaves that shiver in blasts from the mountain-clefts that blow.