Hours of the night! upon my chamber walls
Hung dreamy figures hovering in mid air,
Begot by Raphael when the antique art
He wedded with the bridal ring of Christ.

Sweet Raphael — fairest of the sons of men,
Whose thoughts were visible music, whose accord
Died not when died its master, but lives on,
Charming the eye and thought of lands unknown.

Hours of the night! how dreamily they move!
One from her vase pours down the dreamy dew —
One hovering with vailed brow and wavering robe
Seems bearer of calm dreams like floating clouds —

Flying, yet still — and as I gaze, my brain
Grows tremulous and seems to float and dream,
And as I dream thus flows the tide of song:

Hours of the night, for ever there unfolding
Your purple shady robes, heavy and still!
Pass, pass ye on, while we your course, beholding,
Wait for the morning which pursues you still.

Hours of the night! to him for ever passed?
For he hath gone into God's perfect day!
Where the ideal is mystery no more;
Where doubt and error flee with night away!

Hours of the night! ye have your pleasant dreams,
Your falling dews, with silvery doubtful gleam;
But pass ye on, and rise the perfect day
When all shall stand revealed in morning's beam!

For all that painters, all that poets dream,
Are but the dew-drops of life's fleeting night
That shine on tree and flower, but cannot guide,
While grope we on, in the imperfect light.

He is the Morning Star, that Son of God,
Whom Raphael saw transfigured in the sky —
That glorious dream was given to his night hours
To be for ours perpetual legacy; —

He saw and died — the morning star had risen —
The fleeting night brought in th' immortal day,
And as a dew drop spreads its rainbow wing,
The artist's soul exhaled in light away.

Ah, these night hours, O Savior, grant us power
To pass them bravely waiting, till we see
Thee rising in the east, before whose face
All night, all sorrow, shall for ever flee.