The Motion of the Mists

HERE by the sunless Lake there is no air,
Yet with how ceaseless motion, like a shower
Flowing and fading, do the high Mists lower
Amid the gorges of the Mountains bare.
Some weary breathing never ceases there, —
The barren peaks can feel it hour by hour;
The purple depths are darken'd by its power;
A soundless breath, a trouble all things share
That feel it come and go. See! onward swim
The ghostly Mists, from silent land to land,
From gulf to gulf; now the whole air grows dim —
Like living men, darkling a space, they stand.
But lo! a Sunbeam, like the Cherubim,
Scatters them onward with a flaming brand.