O thou whose fringè d lids I gaze upon,
Through whose dim brain the wingè d dreams are born,
Unroof the shrines of clearest vision,
In honour of the silverfleckè d morn:
Long hath the white wave of the virgin light
Driven back the billow of the dreamful dark.
Thou all unwittingly prolongest night,
Though long ago listening the poisè d lark,
With eyes dropt downward through the blue serene,
Over heaven's parapets the angels lean.