Some prisoned moon in steep cloud-fastnesses,— Throned queen and thralled; some dying sun whose pyre Blazed with momentous memorable fire;— Who hath not yearned and fed his heart with these? Who, sleepless, hath not anguished to appease Tragical shadow`s realm of sound and sight Conjectured in the lamentable night? . . . Lo! the soul`s sphere of infinite images! What sense shall count them? Whether it forecast The rose-winged hours that flutter in the van Of Love`s unquestioning unrevealèd span,— Visions of golden futures: or that last Wild pageant of the accumulated past That clangs and flashes for a drowning man.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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