Classic Poem

I.

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.

II.

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.