"Not pleasureless the morn, when dismal fog
Rolls o'er the dewy plain, or thin mist drives;
When the lone timber's saturated branch
Drips freely."
In the progress of day,
"Shorn of his glory through the dim profound,
With melancholy aspect looks the orb
Of stifled day, and while he strives to pierce
And dissipate the slow reluctant gloom,
Seems but a rayless globe, an autumn moon,