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RENAISSANCE
—Yea, cloistered round with old red crumbling wall,
On marble steps methinks I see thee stand,
Erect and gracious, young and fair and tall,
Holding sweet purple violets in thy hand!
Yet as I gaze, rejoicing,—ah, behold!
Is there not spread a warm blue sky afloat
Above thee, and beneath thee? From the gold
Of those rough-rippling locks, thy dulcet throat,
All lilywhite and clear, leans yearningly
Along the blue; thy face is full of dreams,
Pensive, mysterious, very sweet to see!
And, thro’ the bright air flashing brighter beams,
Lo! from each pure-curv’d shoulder a white wing
Upleaping, for a veil that thou mayst spread
Before thy face, in that high communing
When God’s own voice rings round thine awe-struck head.
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