LXXXI.
I turn’d: what glimmer’d faintly on my sight—
Faintly, yet brightening as a wreath of snow
Seen through dissolving haze? The moon, the night,
Had waned, and down pour’d in—gray, shadowy, slow,
Yet dayspring still! A solemn hue it caught,
Piercing the storied windows, darkly fraught
With stoles and draperies of imperial glow;
And, soft and sad, that colouring gleam was thrown
Where, pale, a pictured form above the altar shone.