  Ye snow-white clouds, whose fleecy wings enfold The stars, that light yon boundless breadth of blue, Roll back your edges, tinged with deepest gold, And softly let the peaceful wanderers through; Till, one by one, they burst upon my eyes, O’ertaking my young heart with sudden sweet surprise. How oft, when but a child, in wildest glee, I’ve climbed the summit of some breezy hill, Whose mossy sides went sloping to the sea Where slept another heaven serenely still; While, from the mighty stronghold of the seas, The dead send up their dirge upon the twilight breeze. And there beneath a fringe of dewy leaves, That drooped away from many a bended bough, I used to lie on summer’s golden eves, And gaze about as I am gazing now, Thinking each lustrous star a heavenly shrine For an immortal soul, and wondered which was mine. Sculpture of a young woman looking into the distance, hand shading her eyes Randolph Rogers (1825-1892). The Lost Pleiad. Lifts high her cup of paly gold; And all the planets, following slow and still, Along the deep their solemn marches hold; While here and there some meteor’s startling ray Shoots streaks of arrowy fire far down the Milky Way. The Milky Way: ah, fair, illumined path, That leadeth upward to the gate of heaven; My spirit, soaring from this world of scath, Is lost with thee among the clouds of even, And there, upborne on Fancy’s glittering wing, Floats by the Golden Gate, and hears the angels sing. |
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