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A long, deep, shivering sigh, as from blue lips

Stiffening in death, close to mine ear I thought

Some doom was close upon me, and I looked

And saw the red moon through the heavy mist,

Just setting, and it seemed as it wer. falling,

Or reeling to its fall, so dim and dead And palsy-struck it looked. Then all sounds merged

Into the rising surges of the pines, Which, leagues below me, clothing the gaunt loins

Of ancient Caucasus with hairy strength, Sent up a murmur in the morning wind,

Sad as the wail that from the populous earth

All day and night to high Olympus

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From off my lips, for I will tell thy doom.

And are these tears? Nay, do not triumph, Jove!

They are wrung from me but by the agonies

Of prophecy, like those sparse drops which fall

From clouds in travail of the lightning, when

The great wave of the storm highcurled and black

Rolls steadily onward to its thunderous break.

Why art thou made a god of, thou poor type

Of anger, and revenge, and cunning force?

True Power was never born of brutish Strength,

Nor sweet Truth suckled at the shaggy dugs

Of that old she-wolf. Are thy thunderbolts,

That quell the darkness for a space, so strong

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