Clothed in white splendour and thy train upborne
By silken handed airs in fluttering state,
With piping minstrels, joyful in thy fate,
And still, before thee heard, Spring’s herald horn.
Thy silver feet have touched the sparkling grass,
Where flowers are stars of light from heaven’s blue dome
Dropt in the noiseless night to pave thy floor:
So, like a splendid vision, thou dost pass
Between the pillars of the sun’s bright home,
Drawn in Time’s pageant to return no more.