the chamber called peace.
251
From their unfinished story of Infinite Glory:
But its echo, low-breathing, like incense came wreathing
The chamber called Peace.
But its echo, low-breathing, like incense came wreathing
The chamber called Peace.
Though dripping November had quenched the last ember
Of autumn's red fire,
A presence enchanted the forest yet haunted;
It could not expire:
It lit the leaves, flying from winds feebly sighing
For summer's decease;
Touched the birches white-fingered, that silently lingered,
Where pine-choirs were sending an anthem unending
Through the chamber called Peace.
Of autumn's red fire,
A presence enchanted the forest yet haunted;
It could not expire:
It lit the leaves, flying from winds feebly sighing
For summer's decease;
Touched the birches white-fingered, that silently lingered,
Where pine-choirs were sending an anthem unending
Through the chamber called Peace.
In a still flood of amber, Dawn entered the chamber,
The sleeper to rouse.
A rose-cloud passed slowly,—a messenger holy,
At pause for the vows
Of pilgrims awaking;—then lifting and breaking
From a rich, robing fleece,
The sleeper to rouse.
A rose-cloud passed slowly,—a messenger holy,
At pause for the vows
Of pilgrims awaking;—then lifting and breaking
From a rich, robing fleece,
