Sonnet XVIII An Evening in November, Which Had Been Stormy, Gradually Clearing Up, in a Mountainous Country
Ceas’d is the rain; but heavy drops yet fall
From the drench’d roof;—yet murmurs the sunk wind
Round the dim hills; can yet a passage find
Whistling thro’ yon cleft rock, and ruin’d wall.
The swoln and angry torrents heard, appal,
Tho’ distant.—A few stars, emerging kind,
Shed their green, trembling beams.—With lustre small,
The moon, her swiftly-passing clouds behind,
Glides o’er that shaded hill.—Now blasts remove
The shadowing clouds, and on the mountain’s brow,
Full-orb’d, she shines.—Half sunk within its cove
Heaves the lone boat, with gulphing sound;—and lo!
Bright rolls the settling lake, and brimming rove
The vale’s blue rills, and glitter as they flow.