Struck out and died; Stilled in one heavenly harmony Spread out wide, In one ethereal crimson glow; As if the Rose of Heaven Had blossomed for one perfect hour, Midsummer Even, As ever in the mystic sphere Of stars seven. An opening blush of purest pink, That swiftly streams and grows As shoreward all the liquid waste Enkindled flows, Every ripple of all the sea Rose on Rose. --Through the heavens of midnight Came a bitter cry, Flesh and spirit breaking, Mortal agony; Died away unanswered Through the sky.-- But all the dim blue South was filled With the auroral flame, Far out into the southward land Without a name That dreamed away into the dark,-- When One came, Suddenly came stepping, Where the roseate rift Of the boreal blossoms Crossed the snowy drift In a trailing pathway, Straight and swift. Her robes were full and silken, Her feet were silken-shod, In sweeping stately silence, Serene she trod The starry carpets strewing The soft sod. The eyes of the veronica Looked out and far away, A golden wreath around her head Of light curls lay, And rippled back a shining shower, In bright array. About her neck the diamonds flashed In rivers of blue fire; But whiter her soft shoulders than Her white attire, And tenderer her tender arms Than heart's desire. She fronted full the crimson flood Of all the Northern space, And all the hue of all the sky Was in her face; The Rose of all the World has come To this place. A vision of white that glowed to red With the fire at heaven, at heart,-- Nor paused nor turned,--but straight to him Who lay apart, On she came, and knelt by him,-- Here thou art! At the first hour after midnight, As in the eider's nest, The weary head sank soft into A heavenly rest; Is it a bed of roses,-- Or her breast? At the second hour the cold limbs Felt comfort unaware; Flickering, a golden glow Warmed all the air: Is it the hearth-flame lighted,-- Or her hair? At the third hour, round the faint heart Failing in chill alarms, Is it some silken coverlet Still wraps and warms In close and closer clasping?-- Or her arms? At the fourth hour, to the wan lips There came a draught divine: Some last reviving cup poured out Of hallowed wine,-- Or is it breath of hers Mixed with thine? At the fifth hour all was dimness Alike to him and her; One low and passionate murmur Still moved the air; Is it the voice of angels,-- Or her prayer? At the sixth hour there stirred only The soft wave on the beach; Two were lying stilly, Past sound or speech, Fair and carven faces, Each by each. PART II. The Summer Palace stood by night Lit up in dazzling sheen,