Who part with sighs that they may meet in smiles,
  Turning their dear disunion to an isle
  Of lovely grief, a wood of sweet sad thoughts;
  Two visions of strange radiance float upon
  The ocean-like enchantment of strong sound,
  Which flows intenser, keener, deeper yet,
  Under the ground and through the windless air.

IONE
  I see a chariot like that thinnest boat
  In which the mother of the months is borne
  By ebbing night into her western cave,
  When she upsprings from interlunar dreams;
  O'er which is curved an orb-like canopy
  Of gentle darkness, and the hills and woods,
  Distinctly seen through that dusk airy veil,
  Regard like shapes in an enchanter's glass;
  Its wheels are solid clouds, azure and gold,
  Such as the genii of the thunder-storm
  Pile on the floor of the illumined sea
  When the sun rushes under it; they roll
  And move and grow as with an inward wind;
  Within it sits a wingèd infant--white
  Its countenance, like the whiteness of bright snow,
  Its plumes are as feathers of sunny frost,
  Its limbs gleam white, through the wind-flowing folds