Dejection: an Ode by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon, / With the old Moon in her arms; / And I fear, I fear, my Master dear! / We shall have a deadly storm. / _Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence._

I. Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made / The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, / This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence / Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade / Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes, / Or the dull sobbing drafty that moans and rakes / Upon the strings of this Æolian lute, / Which better far were mute. / For lo! the New-moon winter-bright! / And overspread with phantom light, / (With swimming phantom light o'erspread / But rimmed and circled by a silver thread) / I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling / The, coming-on of rain and squally blast. / And oh that even now the gust were swelling, / And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast! / Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed, / And sent my soul abroad, / Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give, / Might startle this dull pain, and make it move / and live!