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,

Far as the wild swan wings, to where the sky
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

A cloud of incense of all odour steam'd

From out a golden cup.

So that she thought, "And who shall gaze upon

My palace with unblinded eyes,

While this great bow will waver in the sun,
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,

Thro' which the livelong day my soul did pass,
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,
Who paced for ever in a glimmering land,
Lit with a low large moon.

One show'd an iron coast and angry waves.
You seem'd 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,

The ragged rims of thunder brooding low,

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 scornful crags.

And highest, snow and fire.

And one, an English home-gray twilight pour'd

On dewy pastures, dewy trees,

Softer than sleep-all things in order stored,

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

The dying Islamite, with hands and eyes

That said, We wait for thee.