The eagle's vision cannot take it in.
The lightning's wing, too weak to sweep its space,
Sinks half way o'er it like a wearied bird;—
It is the mirror of the stars, where all
Their host within the concave firmament,
Gay marching to the music of the spheres,
Can see themselves at once—
Nor on the stage
Of rural landscape are their lights and shades
Of more harmonious dance and play than thine.