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James Thomson - Mists In Autumn
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Now, by the cool, declining year condescend,
Descend the copious exhalations, check`d,
As up the middle sky unseen they stole,
And roll the doubling fogs around the hill.
No more the mountain, horrid, vast, sublime,
Who pours a sweep of rivers from his sides,
And high between contending kingdoms rears
The rocky long division, fills the view
With great variety; but in a night
Of gath`ring vapour from the baffled sense
Sinks dark and dreary; thence expanding far,
The huge dusk gradual swallows up the plain:
Vanish the woods; the dim-seen river seems
Sullen and slow to roll the misty wave.
Ev`n in the height of noon, oppress`d, the sun
Sheds weak and blunt his wide-refracted ray,
Whence glaring oft with many a broaden`d orb
He frights the nations. Indistinct on earth,
Seen through the turbid air, beyond the life
Objects appear, and, wilder`d o`er the waste,
The shepherd stalks gigantic: till at last,
Wreath`d dun around in deeper circles, still 
Successive closing, sits the gen`ral fog
Unbounded o`er the world, and, mingling thick,
A formless gray confusion covers all.
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