"Beneath this sky, so livid and strange, Tormented like thy destiny, What thoughts within thy spirit range Themselves?—O libertine reply." —With vain desires, for ever torn Towards the uncertain, and the vast, And yet, like Ovid—I'll not mourn— Who from his Roman Heaven was cast. O heavens, turbulent as the streams, In you I mirror forth my pride! Your clouds, which clad in mourning, glide, Are the hearses of my dreams, And in your illusion lies the hell, Wherein my heart delights to dwell.