F. Tennyson
At noon a shower had fallen, and the clime
Breathed sweetly, and upon a cloud there lay
One more sublime in beauty than the Day,
Or all the Sons of Time;
A gold harp had he, and was singing there
Songs that I yearn'd to hear; a glory shone
Of rosy twilights on his cheeks -- a zone
Of amaranth on his hair.
He sang of joys to which the earthly heart
Hath never beat; he sang of deathless Youth,
And by the throne of Love, Beauty and Truth
Meeting, no more to part;
He sang lost Hope, faint Faith, and vain Desire
Crown'd there; great works, that on the earth began,
Accomplish'd; towers impregnable to man
Scaled with the speed of fire;
Of Power, and Life, and wingéd Victory
He sang -- of bridges strown 'twixt star and star --
And hosts all arm'd in light for bloodless war
Pass, and repass on high;
Lo! in the pauses of his jubilant voice
He leans to listen: answers from the spheres,
And mighty paeans thundering he hears
Down the empyreal skies:
Then suddenly he ceased -- and seem'd to rest
His goodly-fashion'd arm upon a slope
Of that fair cloud, and with soft eyes of hope
He pointed towards the West;
And shed on me a smile of beams, that told
Of a bright World beyond the thunder-piles,
With blesséd fields, and hills, and happy isles,
And citadels of gold.