That comes whence orient stars do spring-
That cometh in burnish of silver and gold,
Through shining mists, to tell as of old,
The story the lowly flowers have told,
How Hope was pinioned, in glory, to fling
The dawn of her future on every high thing!

Like a meek-eyed thing,

With wing all blue,

That comes from a Temple where hearts are true—

That comes from a Temple so vast,

That when at last

Earth goes like a dot,

There lives not an archangel

Can tell you the spot

Where the poor thing should dwell!

Like a glorions thing,

With scarlet wing,

That flashing doth dazzle mortal eye

That soaring, and soaring, still soaring doth sing,
God is gleamed off from my flashing wing,
See him, poor mortal, though blinded, and sing.
God sent his Justice a right hand to stain
In the blood of a Christ, that ye might remain
To work out his glory, and cease from all pain.
Till sorrow and sadness,

Horror and madness,

Give way to gladness

And cherubic strain !

Joy! O Joy! then as Winter must go,

Spring must be coming for poor souls below!