Chapter LXXXVI

He asks the ambrosial air of evening, which is so "sweet after showers," and is "slowly breathing bare the round of space,"[60] clearing the sky of clouds, and "shadowing" the divided stream by raising ripples on its surface, to fan the fever from his cheek, till Doubt and Death can no longer enchain his fancy, but will let it fly to the rising star, in which

"A hundred spirits whisper, 'Peace.'"

This Poem is remarkable as being one sustained sentence.