It was the south: mid-everything,
Mid-land, mid-summer, noon.
And deep within a limpid spring
The mirrored sun of June.
Splendour in freshness! Ah, who stole
This sun, this fire, from heaven?
He holds it shining in his soul,
Prometheus the forgiven.
(II) THETIS
In her bright title poets dare
What the wild eye of fancy sees—
Similitude—the clear, the fair
Light mystery of images.
Round the blue sea I love the best
The argent foam played, slender, fleet;
I saw—past Wordsworth and the rest—
Her natural, Greek, and silver feet.