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.