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...VARIATIONS: 17 by CONRAD AIKEN ON THE SALE OF MY FARM by ROBERT FROST A POEM FROM THE EDGE OF AMERICA by JAMES GALVIN GETHSEMANE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON IRELAND; WRITTEN FOR THE ART AUTOGRAPH DURING IRISH FAMINE by SIDNEY LANIER |