A Sunset
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
1772 to 1834
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Upon the mountain’s edge with light touch resting,
There brief while the globe of splendor sits
And seems creature of the earth; but soon
More changeful than Moon,
To wane fantastic his great orb submits,
Or or mow of fire: till sinking slowly
Even to star at length he lessens 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 the ancient trunk!
But every leaf through all the flutters,
And deep the cavern of the fountain mutters.
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