With those most dearly loved on earth,
Still would the ceiling fade on high;
And, as the sparks my fire up-sent,
My soul escaped above, unpent.
The lightnings oftentimes she drew,
And crossed the wingèd migrants’ flight;
She sought her roof in midday blue,
Where tender cloud-weft fails from sight—
In evening-red’s ethereal bars—
Or vault of night with brede of stars.