One after one the stars have risen and set,
    Sparkling upon the hoarfrost on my chain: 
    The Bear, that prowled all night about the fold
    Of the North-Star, hath shrunk into his den,
    Scared by the blithesome footsteps of the Dawn, 5
    Whose blushing smile floods all the Orient;
    And now bright Lucifer grows less and less,
    Into the heaven’s blue quiet deep-withdrawn. 
    Sunless and starless all, the desert sky
    Arches above me, empty as this heart 10
    For ages hath been empty of all joy,
    Except to brood upon its silent hope,
    As o’er its hope of day the sky doth now. 
    All night have I heard voices:  deeper yet
    The deep low breathing of the silence grew. 15
    While all about, muffled in awe, there stood
    Shadows, or forms, or both, clear-felt at heart,
    But, when I turned to front them, far along
    Only a shudder through the midnight ran,
    And the dense stillness walled me closer round. 20
    But still I heard them wander up and down
    That solitude, and flappings of dusk wings
    Did mingle with them, whether of those hags
    Let slip upon me once from Hades deep,
    Or of yet direr torments, if such be, 25
    I could but guess; and then toward me came
    A shape as of a woman:  very pale
    It was, and calm; its cold eyes did not move,
    And mine moved not, but only stared on them. 
    Their fixed awe went through my brain like ice; 30
    A skeleton hand seemed clutching at my heart,
    And a sharp chill, as if a dank night fog
    Suddenly closed me in, was all I felt: 
    And then, methought, I heard a freezing sigh,
    A long, deep, shivering sigh, as from blue lips 35
    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 were falling,
    Or reeling to its fall, so dim and dead 40
    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, 45
    Sad as the wail that from the populous earth
    All day and night to high Olympus soars,
    Fit incense to thy wicked throne, O Jove!

      Thy hated name is tossed once more in scorn
    From off my lips, for I will tell thy doom. 50
    And are these tears?  Nay, do not triumph, Jove! 
    They are wrung from me but by the agonies
    Of prophecy, like those sparse