Classic Poem

What wonderworld is this beneath the moon,
The slant, inverted moon of latter night,
What city strange, dim drifting into sight,
With roofs and towers and spires crowding aboon,
And frowning walls with many a cresset strewn,
But, dusk, or glimmering, fashioned all of white,
And moving slow, in winds' and waves' despite,
From shores of night and frost to gulfs of noon?

Far, far below, unseen, a mountain form,
Tugged by the slow, blind currents of the deep,
Rears this fantastic top to sun and storm.
Anon huge battlements downcrashing leap,
The swayed bulk, overset, upheaves enorm,
Toppling the phantom city down the steep.