AS evening shaped I found me on a moor

Which sight could scarce sustain: The black lean land, of featureless contour, Was like a tract in pain.

“This scene, like my own life,” I said, “is one Where many glooms abide; Toned by its fortune to a deadly dun— Lightless on every side.

I glanced aloft and halted, pleasure-caught To see the contrast there: The ray-lit clouds gleamed glory; and I thought, “There’s solace everywhere!”

Then bitter self-reproaches as I stood I dealt me silently As one perverse—misrepresenting Good In graceless mutiny.

Against the horizon’s dim-discernèd wheel A form rose, strange of mould: That he was hideous, hopeless, I could feel Rather than could behold.

“’Tis a dead spot, where even the light lies spent To darkness!” croaked the Thing. “Not if you look aloft!” said I, intent On my new reasoning.

“Yea—but await awhile!” he cried. “Ho-ho!— Look now aloft and see!” I looked. There, too, sat night: Heaven’s radiant show Had gone. Then chuckled he.