And low the echo died away.
An artist’s canvas, pink with dawn,
The second angel turned to me,
Her brush strayed o’er a grassy lawn
And dotted here and there a tree.
All blooming in immortal dyes,
With streamlets winding clear and blue,
Where, looking from the far off skies,
The clouds were mirrored to my view.
But when the sun blazed from the sky,