GIOTTO'S TOWER. HOW many lives, made beautiful and sweet By self-devotion and by self-restraint, Whose pleasure is to run without complaint On unknown errands of the Paraclete, Wanting the reverence of unshodden feet, Fail of the nimbus which the artists paint And are in their completeness incomplete! In the old Tuscan town stands Giotto's tower, The lily of Florence blossoming in stone, A vision, a delight, and a desire, — That in the night of ages bloomed alone, TO-MORROW. IS late at night, and in the realm of sleep 'TIS My little lambs are folded like the flocks; From room to room I hear the wakeful clocks Challenge the passing hour, like guards that keep Their solitary watch on tower and steep; Far off I hear the crowing of the cocks, And through the opening door that time un locks Feel the fresh breathing of To-morrow creep. |