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.