O glorious light! Thy limpid wave
Doth floor of living being pave,
And life from out the caves of darkness
Waft to His sheltering architrave.
From void of night's lone pall of jet,
Yellow and red and violet
Into a quivering beam were woven,—
His flying looms are aweaving yet.
If man and beast and tree and flower
Unweave not Love's rich beauteous dower,
All Danaë again earth darkles
Beneath His ceaseless and golden shower.