I cannot see the features right, When on the gloom I strive to paint The face I know; the hues are faint And mix with hollow masks of night;
Cloud-towers by ghostly masons wrought, A gulf that ever shuts and gapes, A hand that points, and palled shapes In shadowy thoroughfares of thought;
And crowds that stream from yawning doors, And shoals of pucker'd faces drive; Dark bulks that tumble half alive, And lazy lengths on boundless shores;
Till all at once beyond the will I hear a wizard music roll, And thro' a lattice on the soul Looks thy fair face and makes it still.
-Alfred Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam A. H. H., Canto LXX