I halt and tremble at the height

to which you lift my dreaming gaze

through curls of fire, upon the white

abrupt sierras of my days;

O hyacinthal star! whose shining

phasm to film, the flesh will glow

a rose against the dawn, designing

the skeleton, a frond of snow,

while on the rosy splendour drawn,

like webs of frost against the dawn,

the nerves of joy and pain are spun

fine as the thistled hair of fays

and myriad as the coloured rays

an eyelash fibres from the sun.