The Return Of Hyperion

The dungeon-clefts of Tartarus         Are just beyond yon mountain-girdle,         Whose mass is bound around the bulk         Of the dark, unstirred, unmoving East.         Alike on the mountains and the plain,         The night is as some terrific dream,         That closes the soul in a crypt of dread         Apart from touch or sense of earth,         As in the space of Eternity.         What light unseen perturbs the darkness?         Behold! it stirs and fluctuates         Between the mountains and the stars         That are set as guards above the prison         Of the captive Titan-god. I know         That in the deeps beneath, Hyperion         Divides the pillared vault of dark,         And stands a space upon its ruin.         Then light is laid upon the peaks,         As the hand of one who climbs beyond;         And, lo! the Sun! The sentinel stars         Are dead with overpotent flame,         And in their place Hyperion stands.         The night is loosened from the land,         As a dream from the mind of the dreamer.         A great wind blows across the dawn,         Like the wind of the motion of the world.