When bathes the sun his burning crown,
Within old Ostia's main,
He sends transforming angels down
Upon the Roman plain.
Bright threads they fling of iris hue,
And scatter crimson plumes,
As if all nature to renew
With showers of fiery blooms.
See flashing out in golden grace
A thousand arches rise,
And bridge the violet depths of space
To mountains of surprise.
To mountain waves of amethyst,
All flaming up carmine;
Upon each crest the angels rest
Who tend the sun's decline.
But soon the subtle pomps of light
Evade us like a dream,
And with a breath the greys of night
Envelop every gleam.
The fires are dead, the gold is stone,
The mountains, shadowy ghosts:
Ah, whither are the angels gone
With all their radiant hosts?
They travel on from height to height,
In splendour to diffuse
The truth that earth's divinest light
Hath no abiding hues. |
