The pathway up to heaven; or the one
Retrace till eve, which was at morn begun;
Or drive his cloud-clad coursers from the shade
Where lie the lightnings when the storm is done,
And where the rainbows by the saints are made,
O’er many a western wild and island everglade.
’Twas one of those sweet noons the restless soul
Most loves to dream of. Just enough of breeze
To chase the overheated air and roll
Away in music. Silent symphonies,