FAR above the hollow Tempest, and its moan, Singeth bright Apollo In his golden zone, -- Cloud doth never shade him, Nor a storm invade him, On his joyous throne. So when I behold me In an orb as bright, How thy soul doth fold me In its throne of light! Sorrow never paineth, Nor a care attaineth, To that blessed height. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DEXTER GORDON: COPENHAGEN/AVERY FISHER HALL by KAREN SWENSON THE MASTER-PLAYER by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR THE DANCE OF THE SEVIN DEIDLY SYNNIS by WILLIAM DUNBAR THE FALL OF RICHMOND [APRIL, 1865] by HERMAN MELVILLE |