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Ponte a Mare, Pisa, Percy Bysshe Shelley

The sun is set; the swallows are asleep;
The bats are flitting fast in the grey air; 
The slow soft toads out of damp corners creep, 
And evening’s breath, wandering here and there 
Over the quivering surface of the stream, 
Wakes not one ripple from its silent dream.

There is no dew on the dry grass to-night, 
Nor damp within the shadow of the trees; 
The wind is intermitting, dry, and light; 
And in the inconstant motion of the breeze 
The dust and straws are driven up and down, 
And whirled about the pavement of the town.

Within the surface of the fleeting river 
The wrinkled image of the city lay, 
Immoveably unquiet, and for ever 
It trembles, but it never fades away; 
Go to the [                                               ]
You, being changed, will find it then as now.

The chasm in which the sun has sunk is shut 
By darkest barriers of enormous cloud, 
Like mountain over mountain huddled—but 
Growing and moving upwards in a crowd, 
And over it a space of watery blue, 
Which the keen evening star is shining through.