F. Tennyson At noon a shower had fallen, and the clime Breathed sweetly, and upon a cloud there lay One more sublime in beauty than the Day, Or all the Sons of Time; A gold harp had he, and was singing there Songs that I yearn'd to hear; a glory shone Of rosy twilights on his cheeks -- a zone Of amaranth on his hair. He sang of joys to which the earthly heart Hath never beat; he sang of deathless Youth, And by the throne of Love, Beauty and Truth Meeting, no more to part; He sang lost Hope, faint Faith, and vain Desire Crown'd there; great works, that on the earth began, Accomplish'd; towers impregnable to man Scaled with the speed of fire; Of Power, and Life, and wingéd Victory He sang -- of bridges strown 'twixt star and star -- And hosts all arm'd in light for bloodless war Pass, and repass on high; Lo! in the pauses of his jubilant voice He leans to listen: answers from the spheres, And mighty paeans thundering he hears Down the empyreal skies: Then suddenly he ceased -- and seem'd to rest His goodly-fashion'd arm upon a slope Of that fair cloud, and with soft eyes of hope He pointed towards the West; And shed on me a smile of beams, that told Of a bright World beyond the thunder-piles, With blesséd fields, and hills, and happy isles, And citadels of gold. |