THE PALACE OF ART.
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Thro' which the lights' rose, amber, emerald, blue,
Flush'd in her temples and her eyes,
And from her lips, as morn from Memnon, drew
Rivers of melodies.
No nightingale delighteth to prolong
Her low preamble all alone,
More than my soul to hear her echo'd song
Throb thro' the ribbed stone.
Singing and murmuring in her feastful mirth,
Joying to feel herself alive.
Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible earth.
Lord of the senses five;
Communing with herself: "All these are mine,
And let the world have peace or wars,
'Tis one to me." She—when young night divine
Crown'd dying day with stars,
