Shadow deep’ning evermore!
XIV.
Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer,
Swung by seraphim, whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Oh, my soul, thy God hath heard thee, by these angels and this bird He
Hath to sweetest hopes now stirr’d thee—hopes of finding thy Annore
In the far-off land of spirits—of reunion with Annore!”
Quoth the dove, “For evermore!”
XV.
“Prophet,” said I, “thing of glory! prophet, as in ancient story,