Swung themselves, and in low tones replied; Till the fountain spouted, showering wide Sleet of diamond-drift and pearly hail; Then the music touch'd the gates and died; Rose again from where it seem'd to fail, Storm'd in orbs of song, a growing gale; Till thronging in and in, to where they waited, As 'twere a hundred-throated nightingale, The strong tempestuous treble throbb'd and palpitated; Ran into its giddiest whirl of sound, Hair, and eyes, and limbs, and faces, Till, kill'd with some luxurious agony, The nerve-dissolving melody III. And then I look'd up toward a mountaintract, That girt the region with high cliff and lawn: I saw that every morning, far withdrawn Beyond the darkness and the cataract, God made himself an awful rose of dawn, Unheeded and detaching, fold by fold, From those still heights, and, slowly drawing near, A vapour heavy, hueless, formless, cold, |