Page:Roden Noel - A Little Child's Monument - 1881.pdf/95

Fair facing these, in Morn's unearthly smile,
O'er purple Main's horizon, lo! a snowy-mountained isle!
In soft air's primrose,
A violet-flushing rose.
Shadowy gleaming island! art thou solid strand,
Or pageant of cloudland?
In memory's far world a visionary pile?
Some dear dream beyond our scope
In heavenlier realms of faith or hope?
When will our wings, or fair El-Sirat come,
And we fly home?
Of musing faith and prayer, of love and lofty deed,
A very iris-arch to heaven is wrought,
Till from the spirit falls her homely weed,
And white wings wave where otherwhile was nought
Of star-yfraught!
Psyche lost her wings! from death, and wrong, and pain,
Behold! they are born again;
So these are very gain.

Near heights, transfigured in ethereal,
Essential glory, burn purpureal.
Fair ample Morn, in silence o'er the sea,
Opens her shrine, her sanctuary of bloom,
To ocean's billowy pure foam,
Unfolds unfathomable blossom,