The Fanes Of Dawn

In opal mist involved, and silver snows,
The mountains front the slow-unfolding morn,
While half the west lies darkling, and forlorn
The last star flees unheeded as it rose;
Now what ethereal molten colour flows
Along the stone of summits dim and worn?
This amethystine-winged fire upborne
Of gems consummed from what cloud-furnace glows?

Above the mountains twice-sublime with fire,
In lands of light, of colour, and of air,
What walls and tow's whose wonder shall not last
Are builded - where the cloudy fanes aspire
That house the visioned morning's purple flare,
And with it melt upon the crystal vast.