Their own fair forms, upon the glimmering plain, 225
Painted more soft and fair as they descend,
Almost to touch;—then up again aloft,
Up with a sally, and a flash of speed,
As if they scorned both resting-place and rest![365]
This day is a thanksgiving, ’tis a day 230
Of glad emotion and deep quietness;
Not upon me alone hath been bestowed,
Me rich in many onward-looking thoughts,
The penetrating bliss; oh surely these