Page:The city of dreadful night - and other poems (IA cityofdreadfulni00thomrich).pdf/112

 Float as beautiful, strange and grand As pencilled palm-trees, every line Mystic with a grace divine, In our dreams of the holy Eastern Land.

There is not a cloud in the sky; The vague vast grey Melts into azure dim on high. Warmth, and languor, and infinite peace! Surely the young Day Hath fallen into a vision and a trance, And his burning flight doth cease.

Yet look how here and there Soft curves, fine contours, seem to swim, Half emerging, wan and dim, Into the quiet air: Like statues growing slowly, slowly out From the great vault of marble; here a limb, And there a feature, but the rest all doubt.

Then the sculpturing sunbeams smite, And the forms start forth to the day; And the breath of the morning sweepeth light The luminous dust away: