Reveals the subtle secret of her bosom,
Pours from a crystal urn
Heavenly hues love-born,
Till Day's archangel, pulsing radiancy,
Swiftly emerging from the deep's grey pall,
A flower of fire ascends, and floating free,
Winged with intolerable splendour, soars imperially!
Then all the vibrant ocean blazeth,
And his grand blinding glory praiseth.
But thou, O Sun! dost never die,
Nor ascend on high!
Earth, whene'er she turns away,
Deems there is a death of Day.
Herbs wake to fragrance; flowers from soft dream;
A myriad hearts pour forth their orison
At thy sublime epiphany, O solemn-soaring Sun!
Yet thou, fair Light Supreme,
To these who feel thy beam,
Art but a moon-pale shadow of the Eternal One!
Thou mighty living Soul, in whom we live and move,
Feedest upon the fire divine of spiritual Love.
NOON.
Now at full noon a silver silence reigns;
The pines are fragrant, and the mountain thyme;
