The coming Phœbus lays huge beams of gold,
And roseate fire and glories that the prism
Would vainly strive before us to unfold;
And, while I gaze, from out the bright abysm
A flaming disc is to the horizon rolled.
THE MYSTERY OF DOOM
'TWAS on a day, and in high, radiant heaven,
An angel lay beside a lake reclined,