 | Poems by James Rhoades |  |
67
THE ATMOSPHERE OF POETRY.
Like cloudy shapes, that float or lieBeneath still depths of azure sky—
Dull dream-like forms, that have their birth
And semblance from the insensate earth,
Till, mix'd with heaven, they learn to share
The pulses of the purple air,
So round the poet's feet are roll'd
Dim fancies, colourless and cold,
Skirting the lustral deeps, that lie
Within his soul's transparent sky,
And are not fleet, themselves, or fair,
Till mix'd with that refulgent air.
| Poems by James Rhoades | |