Through the torn clouds the westering sun returns,
And all their tattered fringes reek with gold;
A soft, alternate vapor, from each fold
Of denser purple streaming, upward yearns
Like a phosphoric flame, and downward, turns
The dark-blue sea to chrysoprase, unrolled
Hue after hue, to greenest emerald,
Whose molten splendor the grey shore inurns.
A dewy freshness fills the sprinkled air;
The island meadows and the dull-green trees
Renewed in Nature’s baptism, seem to wear
The tenderer verdure of th’ eternal peace,
As if the Infinite Painter pencilled there
Memories of Eden dreams for New Earth’s prophecies!
