XI.
Yet we should err to deem that he was left
To bear alone our being’s lonely weight,
Or that his soul was vacant and bereft
Of pomp and inward state:
XII.
Morn, when before the sun his orb unshrouds,
Swift as a beacon torch the light has sped,
Kindling the dusky summits of the clouds
Each to a fiery red—
XIII.
The slanted columns of the noonday light,
Let down into the bosom of the hills,
Or sunset, that with golden vapour bright
The purple mountains fills—
XIV.
These made him say,—if God has so arrayed
A fading world that quickly passes by,
Such rich provision of delight was made
For every human eye,