(Pometheus Unbound, Act IV.)

As a violet's gentle eye
Gazes on the azure sky
Until its hue grows like what it beholds;

As a gray and empty mist
Lies like solid amethyst
Over the western mountain it enfolds,

When the sunset sleeps
Upon its snow;
As a strain of sweetest sound
Wraps itself the wind around

Until the voiceless wind be music too;
As aught dark, vain, and dull,
Basking in what is beautiful,
Is full of light and love —