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.
Verses In An Album.
Thomas Hood
(1)
Poem topics: cloud, light, sorrow, soul, shade, storm, golden, never, bright, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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