Encased with precious marbles, pure and rare, How gracefully it soars, and seems the while From every polished stage to laugh and smile, Playing with sportive gleams of lucid air! Fit resting place, methinks, its summit were For a descended angel! happy isle, Mid life's rough sea of sorrow, force and guile , For saint of royal race, or vestal fair, In this seclusion, -call it not a prison,- Cloistering a bosom, innocent and lonely. O Tuscan Priestess! gladly would I watch All night one note of thy loud hymn to catch, Sent forth to greet the sun when first, new-risen, He shines on that aerial station only! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: PAULINE BARRETT by EDGAR LEE MASTERS IN A MYRTLE SHADE by WILLIAM BLAKE HAMATREYA by RALPH WALDO EMERSON WINTER, FR. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE GREAT FRIEND by HENRY DAVID THOREAU THE LOVER: A BALLAD by MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU HON. MR. SUCKLETHUMBKIN'S STORY: THE EXECUTION; A SPORTING ANECDOTE by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM |