The Cloud by Percy Bysshe Shelley Part 5

And the crimson pall of eve may fall

From the depth of Heaven above,

With wings folded I rest, on mine aery nest,

As still as a brooding dove

That orbed maiden with white fire laden,

Whom mortals call the Moon,

Glides glimmer o'er my fleece like floor,

by the midnight breezes strewn;

And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,

Which only the angels hear,

May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,

The stars peep behind her and peer;

And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,

Like a swarm of golden bees,

When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,

Till the calm rivers, lakes and seas,

Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,

Are paved with the moon and these.