But Juan saw not this: each wreath of smoke

Appeared to him but as the magic vapour

Of some alchymic furnace, from whence broke

The wealth of worlds (a wealth of tax and paper):

The gloomy clouds, which o'er it as a yoke

Are bowed, and put the Sun out like a taper,

Were nothing but the natural atmosphere,

Extremely wholesome, though but rarely clear.