And heaven’s own tints have wrought o’er tree and hill
A purpling canopy.
Go—bathe thy gaudy wing
In freshened azure from the deepening sky—
In the rich gold yon parting sunbeams fling,
Ere yet their glories die.
The boundless air is thine,
The gorgeous radiance of declining day;
Those painted clouds their living hues entwine
To deck thy heavenward way.