HE very air breathes mystery—cloud, plain
Are silent; and funereal shadows creep,
To tremble under cypresses that reign
In solemn state upon the rocky steep.
The silver shower of the fountain falls
Within St. Peter's square; th' impressive space—
Though grand, mysterious—is dead, and palls
Upon the senses like a buried face,
We once have loved, and pray'd we might forget.
The Colosseum too is desolate,
Though her green draperies with show'rs are wet—
With tears of Heaven. Mark the sunbeams meet
To gild the ruined outlines, that the gloom
May not again remind us of that tomb.
A WHISPER.
HE very air breathes mystery—cloud, plainAre silent; and funereal shadows creep,
To tremble under cypresses that reign
In solemn state upon the rocky steep.
The silver shower of the fountain falls
Within St. Peter's square; th' impressive space—
Though grand, mysterious—is dead, and palls
Upon the senses like a buried face,
We once have loved, and pray'd we might forget.
The Colosseum too is desolate,
Though her green draperies with show'rs are wet—
With tears of Heaven. Mark the sunbeams meet
To gild the ruined outlines, that the gloom
May not again remind us of that tomb.