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Updated: May 20, 2025
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers, Lightning my pilot sits, In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, It struggles and howls at fits; Over earth and ocean with gentle motion This pilot is guiding me, Lured by the love of the genii that move In the depths of the purple sea; Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, Over the lakes and the plains, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, The spirit he love remains; And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, Whilst he is dissolving in rains. . . . . . . . "I bind the sun's throne with the burning zone, And the moon's with a girdle of pearl: The volcanoes are dim, and the starts reel and swim When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, Over a torrent sea, Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, The mountains its columns be.
But long ere this, from the butt of the white plumule, just outside the nut, white threads of root have struck down into the sand; and so the nut lies, chained to the ground by a bridge-like chord, which drains its albumen, through the monkey's eye, into the young plant.
There was no time to think I was too hard at work; and, to my surprise, I found myself just beneath the long bridge-like piece of stone which had been laid across the opening to the shaft; while, by holding on to the rope with one hand and, reaching up the other to grasp the stone, I could see by the light which rose from below reflected from the glistening wall, for the lamp was out of sight that the rope was one of the strong tethering-reins, fastened round the stone as if for the purpose of lowering a bucket.
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