So that she thought, “And who shall gaze upon My palace with unblinded eyes, While this great bow will waver in the sun, And that sweet incense rise?”[6] For that sweet incense rose and never fail’d, And, while day sank or mounted higher, The light aerial gallery, golden-rail’d, Burnt like a fringe of fire.[6] Likewise the deep-set windows, stain’d and traced, Would seem slow-flaming crimson fires From shadow’d grots of arches interlaced, And tipt with frost-like spires.[6] ... Full of long-sounding corridors it was, That over-vaulted grateful gloom,[7] Thro’ which the livelong day my soul did pass, Well-pleased, from room to room. Full of great rooms and small the palace stood, All various, each a perfect whole From living Nature, fit for every mood[8] And change of my still soul. For some were hung with arras green and blue, Showing a gaudy summer-morn, Where with puff’d cheek the belted hunter blew His wreathed bugle-horn.[9] One seem’d all dark and red—a tract of sand, And some one pacing there alone, Who paced for ever in a glimmering land, Lit with a low large moon.[10]> One show’d an iron coast and angry waves. You seem’d to hear them climb and fall And roar rock-thwarted under bellowing caves, Beneath the windy wall.[11] And one, a full-fed river winding slow By herds upon an endless plain, The ragged rims of thunder brooding low, With shadow-streaks of rain.[11] And one, the reapers at their sultry toil. In front they bound the sheaves. Behind Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil, And hoary to the wind.[11] And one, a foreground black with stones and slags, Beyond, a line of heights, and higher All barr’d with long white cloud the scornful crags, And highest, snow and fire.[12] And one, an English home—gray twilight pour’d On dewy pastures, dewy trees, Softer than sleep—all things in order stored, A haunt of ancient Peace.[13] Nor these alone, but every landscape fair, As fit for every mood of mind, Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was there, Not less than truth design’d.[14] ... Or the maid-mother by a crucifix, In tracts of pasture sunny-warm, Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx Sat smiling, babe in arm.[15] Or in a clear-wall’d city on the sea, Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair Wound with white roses, slept St. Cecily; An angel look’d at her. Or thronging all one porch of Paradise, A group of Houris bow’d to see The dying Islamite, with hands and eyes That said, We wait for thee.[16] Or mythic Uther’s deeply-wounded son In some fair space of sloping greens Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon, And watch’d by weeping queens.[17] Or hollowing one hand against his ear, To list a foot-fall, ere he saw The wood-nymph, stay’d the Ausonian king to hear Of wisdom and of law.[18] Or over hills with peaky tops engrail’d, And many a tract of palm and rice, The throne of Indian Cama[19] slowly sail’d A summer fann’d with spice.