Whom poets painted with a hue divine—
That, bright embodied in their thrilling strain,
Makes the soul drunken, as with mental wine,
While the heart bows in longing and in pain
Before its mystic shrine!
The shadow of a bliss!
That flies the spirit hastening to enjoy—
That seems to come from fairer climes than this,
To throw its spells around the dreaming boy,
But steals his quiet with its siren-kiss,