There open fanes and gaping graves Yawn level with the luminous waves; But not the riches there that lie In each idol's diamond eye Not the gaily-jewelled dead Tempt the waters from their bed; For no ripples curl, alas! Along that wilderness of glass― No swelling tell that winds may be No heavings hint that winds have been On seas less hideously serene. But lo, a stir is in the air! The wave-there is a movement there! As if the towers had thrust aside, In slightly sinking, the dull tide— As if their tops had feebly given A void within the filmy Heaven. The hours are breathing faint and low Down, down that town shall settle hence, Shall do it reverence. |