Canto LXVIII
I cannot see the features right,When on the gloom I strive to paintThe face I know; the hues are faintAnd mix with hollow masks of night:
Cloud-towers by ghostly masons wrought,A gulf that ever shuts and gapes,A hand that points, and palled shapesIn 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 willI hear a wizard music roll,And thro’ a lattice on the soulLooks thy fair face and makes it still.