From What Is Lost

I Arose a rainbow from relinquis'd fiend, And shines the scarlet where dyes erased, Storms the tempest here as it was its grind: Thus hidden is, no scour at which will rais'd. II And in vain I'll ask which pain I'll lose, in the silent valley of ceased mourn, where are the sorrows all one froze and side the shadows a single urn. III Burns an hermit sun the geason land, Through a nocturne hem of flame: worns the holy heaven low in sand, while the fatal course to pathless frame. ? IV Are you my vestiges enclos'd? I lorn; while o'er the farewell sunrises hance; and they are being bend'd in a turn: it stares at those, whose eye is stance. V Ancient the faith, the offerings and lare, Eternal slaves are them, a grave's realm; The burial is the comet, and Death a star; And clear the prophets sing a gaudy salm. VI Is blessed Soul, for life in strides is spent; Elect thy road, man!, as you could not- Thou never ride the course or hent; But ever thou will shed thy root.