A Volant Tribe Of Bards On Earth Are Found, Who, While The Flattering Zephyrs Round Them Play, On "Coignes Of Vantage" Hang Their Nests Of Clay; How Quickly From That Aery Hold Unbound, Dust For Oblivion! To The Solid Ground Of Nature Trusts The Mind That Builds For Aye; Convinced That There, There Only, She Can Lay Secure Foundations. As The Year Runs Round, Apart She Toils Within The Chosen Ring; While The Stars Shine, Or While Day'S Purple Eye Is Gently Closing With The Flowers Of Spring; Where Even The Motion Of An Angel'S Wing Would Interrupt The Intense Tranquility Of Silent Hills, And More Than Silent Sky.