A Night-Scene

The lake, like her, heaves gently
Its breast of waves under a heaven of sleep,
And pictures in its soothed, transparent being
The depth of worlds o’erhanging: o’er the pillow,
Washed by the overflowing, flowery locks,
A silver promise of the moon is breathed:
And the light veil of hieroglyphic clouds
The curious wind rends ever and anon,
Revealing the deep dream of Alpine heights,
Which fill the distance of its wondering spirit,
And on its hectic cheeks the prophecies
Do fearfully reflect, that flicker up
Out of the sun’s grave underneath the world.

[Kelsall, 1851]