On one side of the roof a golden blaze,
Curtained by crimson clouds, told that the Sun,
Heralded by her star, had met his bride,
The sweet young Morning; and around, a ring
Of radiant shapes were gathered: in the midst
Was one, a very dream of loveliness,
Her hair streamed on the wind, a shower of gold
Hung from a crown of stars, and four white steeds
Were harnessed by spring blossoms to the car
Whereon she stood. Her eye was on a youth,
Graceful as young Endymion when the moon
Shed her pale smile upon his marble brow
And thick and raven curls: he stood beneath
A green beech tree, two hounds were by his side,
Impatient of his idleness, while he
Leant on his useless spear, watching the sleep
Of his young Bride. He had just heard his name
Murmured, in tones low as a bird's first song,
From her half opened lips, which like spring flowers
Drank the fresh air, then sighed it forth again
With added fragrance. There was shade around
The laurel, and the darker bay, the oak,
All sacred as the crowns of fame: the first
Bound round the Poet's tuneful lyre; the next
Around the Warrior's helm, mixed with the pine
And with the waving poplar. In the midst,
As in a favourite haunt, were flowers entwined;
And there the sleeper lay: one pearl white hand—
The violets rose to kiss its azure veins,
Coloured with their own purity,—beneath
One cheek was as a pillow, and that one
Was flushed with crimson, while the other wore
A tint less warm, but not less beautiful—
Two shades of blushing on the self-same rose;
And through the tremulous shadow of the leaves
Came two or three bright kisses from the sun,
Wandering in light o'er her white brow; a shower
Of rose leaves lay amid the raven curls
Of her long hair and on her neck. That morn
