A Sunset
Upon the mountain's edge with light touch resting,
There a brief while the globe of splendour sits
And seems a creature of the earth, but soon,
More changeful than the Moon,
To wane fantastic his great orb submits,
Or cone or mow of fire : till sinking slowly
Even to a star at length he lessons wholly.
Abrupt, as Spirits vanish, he is sunk !
A soul-like breeze possesses all the wood.
The boughs, the sprays have stood
As motionless as stands the ancient trunk !
But every leaf through all the forest flutters,
And deep the cavern of the fountain mutters.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge