Not from the realms of Moonlight or the Morn,
But thine own Soul's illumined chambers born—
The colouring of a dream!
Love, shall I read thy dream?—Oh! is it not
All of some sheltering, wood-embosomed spot—
A Bower for thee and thine?
Yes! lone and lonely is that Home; yet there
Something of Heaven in the transparent air
Makes every flower divine.
Something that mellows and that glorifies