In the sweet phantasies of subtle sleep— 
Fancies of lonely shadows darkly strewn 
About the leaves of autumn in the woods, 
Where the small floweret, hidden by the maze 
O’ th’ dying children o’ the copper-beech, 
Lifts a blue forehead to the sun to kiss— 
Fancies of old romance too pitiful 
For any delicate quill to light upon— 
Yes, when the sky from stainless ebony 
Merges in azure, like as if the light 
Of stars had melted into all the black 
To gladden it, O then the solemn hush 
Of morning shall behold the silent grave, 
And wait a moment in rich worshipping 
Of Love, creator of the world’s delight, 
Till the full chorus of the spirits of fire, 
Whose mighty shoulders and wide-flashing wings 
Bear the proud sun from his luxurious bed 
Of rosy fleeces in the West low lying 
Into the staircase of the jealous day, 
Burst on the silence of the world beyond 
And bid the listening poet catch the strain 
Of their half-echoed hymn.  But come, my friends, 
 
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