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And round the cool green courts there ran a row
Of cloisters, branch'd like mighty woods, Echoing all night to that sonorous flow
Of spouted fountain-floods.
And round the roofs a gilded gallery
That lent broad verge to distant lands,
Dipt down to sea and sands.
From those four jets four currents in one swell
Across the mountain stream'd below In misty folds, that floating as they fell
Lit up a torrent-bow.
And high on every peak a statue seem'd
To hang on tiptoe, tossing up
From out a golden cup.
So that she thought, “ And who shall gaze upon
My palace with unblinded eyes,
And that sweet incense rise ?”
For that sweet incense rose and never fail'd,
And, while day sank or mounted higher, The light aërial gallery, golden-rail'd,
Burnt like a fringe of fire.
Likewise the deep-set windows, stain'd and traced,
Would seem slow-flaming crimson fires From shadow'd grots of arches interlaced,
And tipt with frost-like spires.
Full of long sounding corridors it was
That over-vaulted grateful gloom,
Well-pleased, from room to room.
Full of great rooms and small the palace stood,
All various, each a perfect whole From living Nature, fit for every mood
And change of my still soul.
For some were hung with arras green and blue,
Showing a gaudy summer-morn, Where with puff’d cheek the belted hunter blew
His wreathed bugle-horn.
One seem'd all dark and red—a tract of sand,
And some one pacing there alone,
Lit with a low large moon.
One show'd an iron coast and angry waves.
You seemd to hear them climb and fall And roar rock-thwarted under bellowing caves,
Beneath the windy wall.
And one, a full-fed river winding slow
By herds upon an endless plain,
With shadow-streaks of rain.
And one, the reapers at their sultry toil.
In front they bound the sheaves. Behind Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil,
And hoary to the wind.
And one, a foreground black with stones and slags,
Beyond a line of heights, and higher All barr’d with long white cloud the scorn ful crags.
And highest, snow and fire.
And one, an English home-gray twilight pour'd
On dewy pastures, dewy trees,
A haunt of ancient Peace.
Nor these alone, but every landscape fair,
As fit for every mood of mind, Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was there,
Not less than truth design’d.
Or the maid-mother by a crucifix,
In tracts of pasture sunny-warm, Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx
Sat smiling, babe in arm.
Or in a clear-wall'd city on the sea,
Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair Wound with white roses, slept St. Cicely;
An angel look'd at her.
Or thronging all one porch of Paradise,
A group of Houris bow'd to see
That said, We wait for thee.