The poem
The Moon, how definite its orb! Yet gaze again, and with a steady gaze-- 'Tis there indeed,--but where is it not?-- It is suffused o'er all the sapphire Heaven, Trees, herbage, snake-like stream, unwrinkled Lake, Whose very murmur does of it partake And low and close the broad smooth mountain Is more a thing of Heaven than when Distinct by one dim shade and yet undivided from the universal cloud In which it towers, finite in height.