All things confess his strength. Through the cold mass
  Of marble and of color his dreams pass--
  Bright threads whence mothers weave the robes their children wear;
  Language is a perpetual Orphic song,
  Which rules with dædal harmony a throng
  Of thoughts and forms, which else senseless and shapeless were.

  The lightning is his slave; heaven's utmost deep
  Gives up her stars, and like a flock of sheep
  They pass before his eye, are numbered, and roll on!
  The tempest is his steed, he strides the air;
  And the abyss shouts from her depth laid bare,
  'Heaven, hast thou secrets? Man unveils me; I have none.'

THE MOON
  The shadow of white death has passed
  From my path in heaven at last,
  A clinging shroud of solid frost and sleep;
  And through my newly woven bowers,
  Wander happy paramours,
  Less mighty, but as mild as those who keep
  Thy vales more deep.