White Roman robe earth’s shadow marketh dark—
World-licensed target for the poets’ mark!
VI.
The pilgrim hearkens to his guide’s strong words,
Basks in their sunshine, thanketh for their dew,
Yet wonders, could his eyes behold the blue
As well as ears can mark the song of birds,
If something still he lacks he might not find—
Some perfect key of heavenly harmony
That should attune all sad discordancy,