so , then , this warm , wide , weatherless quietude is active with a power , an inherent life , in spite of the mere objectiveness of things , like a cloud-cap in the corner of a looking glass , a change in color in the plain poets mind , night and silence disturbed by an interior sound , the one moonlight , the various universe , intended so much just to be seena purpose , empty perhaps , absurd purpose , but at least a purpose , certain and ever more fresh .