FOG
And gold-chasm'd mountain, steeply shored
O'er lakes of sapphire dye?
Mingled with lisping speech, faint laughter,
Echoes the Phoenix' scream of joyance
Mounting on high?—
Light-bathed vistas and divine sweet mirth,
Beyond dream of spirits penned to earth,
Condemned to pine and die? . . .
Hath serving Nature, bidden of the gods,
Thick-screened Man's narrow sky,
And hung these Stygian veils of fog
To hide his dingied sty? —
The gods who yet, at mortal birth,
Bequeathed him Fantasy?
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