Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, decked
With unrejoicing berries, ghostly shapes
May meet at noontide: Fear and trembling Hope,
Silence and Foresight—Death the skeleton,
And Time the shadow—here to celebrate,
As in a natural temple scattered o’er
With altars undisturbed of mossy stone,
United worship; or in mute repose
To lie, and listen to the mountain flood
Murmuring from Glaramara’s inmost caves.