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20 Anear a shimmer of slim aspen leaves, Fluttering with sound of summer rain. Ah! shall I never cease from journeying? Urged ever onward by a restless ghost, I may not fold my hands in pleasant sleep!

When I surmount some unfamiliar height, Behold! an alien realm mysterious Unroll'd in twilight! ghostly, drear, and wan; Stain'd with what seem huge bombs of shatter'd iron, Hurl'd from a weird infernal enginery. And then I muse what eerie living things Dwell far beyond among the mists of night— Whether the wanderer may wander on For ever in the waste, hearing no sound, Save of his own footfall; or yonder dwell Dark unimaginable human lives; Wearing what uncouth forms, allied to some Misshapen horrors of the forest wild— Weird startling mockery of immortal man; Shocking the soul with chill mistrustful fear,