Ah, in the angel-fall from Heaven, is hope?

The wing-whir discord of the legion's fall

From God forever, mocks my heart's loud call.

Empty of beauty from its base to cope,

The Earth is hollow. Where, then, can I grope

And not be met by echoes that appal?

What! shouts my mind, in wonder that I crawl

And, having skyey wings, in hollows mope.

Does scent from bloom, or warble from the wood,

Not atmosphere the un-aerial void

Twixt thee and beauty, which thy youth enjoyed?

Fly back to earth, by memory renewed;

She fills the hollow, echoing hosts destroyed,—

With Spring, reflecting Heaven's Triumphant Good.