Hexameters

O happy Dome so lightly swimming through storm-riven Æther,
Blue burning and gold, the hollow of Chaos adorning,
Shine, happy Dome of th' air, on Sea thy sister, on ancient
Plains, on sharp snowbeard mountains, on silvery waters,
On knotted eld-mossed trees, on roses starry with April —
But most shine upon one lying tormented, a dreamer,
Thy lover. Ah wherefore did a rift so cruel across thee
Open ? A long tremulous sighing comes thence, with a great wind,
Darkness ever blowing round thy blue curtain. A finger
Out of Hell aims at me. Gather, O sweet Dome o' the Morning,
Thy rapid ardent flamy quiver, thy splintery clusters :
Send a volley straight through to the heart of this desolation,
And burning, blasting with a shaft of thunderous azure,
Break the ebon soldiers, restore his realm to the dreamer !