Creeps quivering into the glass of sense,
To bless the immortals mirrored there.
Through realms of Poesy, whose white cliffs
Cloud its deeps with their hieroglyphs,
Alpine fantasies heaped and wrought
At will by the frolicsome winds of Thought,—
By shores of Beauty, whose colors pass
Faintly into the misty glass,—
By hills of Truth, whose glories show
Distorted, broken, and dimmed, as we know,—