Brings not, though wakening with its rosy ray
All outward life:—Be welcome, then, thy rod,
Before whose touch my soul unfolds itself to God.
ON RETZSCH’S DESIGN OF THE ANGEL OF DEATH.[441]
Well might thine awful image thus arise
With that high calm upon thy regal brow,
And the deep, solemn sweetness in those eyes,
Unto the glorious artist! Who but thou
The fleeting forms of beauty can endow
For him with permanence? who make those gleams