Like storms impetuous torn by mountain rock.
His snowy hair streams wild, his withered bosom
Heaves as the troubled surges rise and fall,
And hot Promethean fire, intensely gathering,
Now blazing leaps from either sightless ball.
“And night came down and all the ways were shaded,”
Dark green the last hot footsteps of the sun,
Still sat the bard entranced with glowing visions,
His night ended, and his day begun.
And still he sat and felt the cooling night-wind,