Of tearless glory, and the forest trees
Sweep round it in a belt of living green.
Colour, that wayward sprite of changeful mien,
Is here subdued to an intensity
Of burning lustre. Sound has but one voice,
And that joyous song; sight but one object,
And that is happiness; mine eyes are strained
To catch the lineaments of the bright queen,
Whose dwelling-place I see; but ’tis in vain;
Nowhere distinct, yet felt in all, she glides,