The Magic Hill soars out of sight
Piled up in weird fantastic form.
In each ravine such shadowy night
As comes from wind and rain and storm.
In each abyss the gloom of hell
Where ghouls and hideous devils dwell.
Within the triple gorge from high
The Moon sheds down a kind of dawn.
In Spring the rivers nine foam by.
What else of wild is here forlorn
Oh! ask not me.—He who in dream
Its spirit saw would fitter seem.