Whence are these motions of the human soul?
Itself outside itself wanders and soars,
Alighting now from old Diluvian shores,
Or where the many-moonéd planets roll,
Or the fixed stars gaze round the icy pole,--
A moment on the threshold of itself
To stand, then hide, an unsubstantial elf,
Or, eyeless, burrow downward like a mole.
But all the while, as a still sentinel
Upon a lonely hill, it marks the track
Itself hath made, and hath the potent spell
Its absent self at will to summon back:--
So several it is, and yet so one,
Such diverse moods that move in unison!