(Of more than earthly grace the vision seems)
The Palace of Repose, that rears on high
Its golden domes against the western sky,
While warm and tender as a poet’s dreams,
The restful radiance from each tower that streams.
Now through the early morning air we fly,
As the young shepherd sped with beaming eye
Fast fixed upon the rose-born butterfly.
Toward flowery vales and hills our pathway leads,
But when we reach them all their beauty fades.