Serenade
by
Far above the hollow
Tempest, and its moan,
Singeth bright Apollo
In his golden zone,–
Cloud doth never shade him,
Nor a storm invade him,
On his joyous throne.
So when I behold me
In an orb as bright,
How thy soul doth fold me
In its throne of light!
Sorrow never paineth,
Nor a care attaineth
To that blessed height.