This photographic fantasy of truth,
This fairy nothingness of vanish’d fact,
A shape to love, minute yet mighty still,
To senses nothing, but to spirit all.
XLIV.
Thus lived I, triumph’d over; as are clouds
Whereon the sun sits throned; all bright are they,
And bright beneath them is the sunset sea.
In splendid serfdom to its love, my soul,
That shone with kindling glory, thence beheld