The crag-built deserts of the barren deep,
  With ever-living leaves, and fruits, and flowers.
  And thou! there is a cavern where my spirit
  Was panted forth in anguish whilst thy pain
  Made my heart mad, and those who did inhale it
  Became mad too, and built a temple there,
  And spoke, and were oracular, and lured
  The erring nations round to mutual war,
  And faithless faith, such as Jove kept with thee;
  Which breath now rises as amongst tall weeds
  A violet's exhalation, and it fills
  With a serener light and crimson air
  Intense, yet soft, the rocks and woods around;
  It feeds the quick growth of the serpent vine,
  And the dark linkèd ivy tangling wild,
  And budding, blown, or odor-faded blooms
  Which star the winds with points of colored light
  As they rain through them, and bright golden globes
  Of fruit suspended in their own green heaven,
  And through their veinèd leaves and amber stems
  The flowers whose purple and translucid bowls
  Stand ever mantling with aërial dew,
  The drink of spirits; and it circles round,
  Like the soft waving wings of noonday dreams,