Full across this drifted hold,

Let us stand with icèd cheeks

Watching westward as of old;

[47]

Past the violet mountain-head

To the farthest fringe of pine,

Where far off the purple-red

Narrows to a dusky line,

And the last pale splendors die

Slowly from the olive sky;

Till the thin clouds wear away

Into threads of purple-gray,

And the sudden stars between

Brighten in the pallid green;

Till above the spacious east,

Slow returnèd one by one,

Like pale prisoners released

From the dungeons of the sun,

Capella and her train appear

In the glittering Charioteer;

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