Like the full moon rising gloriously,
Which streamed o’er it from Heaven—then our flight,
Unwilled, was earthward, with the soul’s archangel, Night.
Full many a shadow o’er the sun and me,
Subduing both a time, has passed since then;
And darker, colder ones in store may be
Unopened, with the woes awaiting men:
But still, in rose-wreathed summer, sometimes, when
The hour is noontide, and the noontide fair,
Sweet Idleness bends over me again