Cloud-towers
by ghostly masons wrought,
A gulf that ever shuts and gapes,
A hand that points, and palled shapes
In
shadowy thoroughfares of thought;
And
crowds that stream from yawning doors,
And shoals of pucker’d faces drive;
Dark bulks that tumble half alive,
And
lazy lengths on boundless shores;
Till
all at once beyond the will
I hear a wizard music roll,
And thro’ a lattice on the soul
Looks
thy fair face and makes it still.