Some prisoned moon in steep cloud-fastnesses,— <br />Throned queen and thralled; some dying sun whose pyre <br />Blazed with momentous memorable fire;— <br />Who hath not yearned and fed his heart with these? <br />Who, sleepless, hath not anguished to appease <br />Tragical shadow's realm of sound and sight <br />Conjectured in the lamentable night? . . . <br />Lo! the soul's sphere of infinite images! <br />What sense shall count them? Whether it forecast <br />The rose-winged hours that flutter in the van <br />Of Love's unquestioning unrevealèd span,— <br />Visions of golden futures: or that last <br />Wild pageant of the accumulated past <br />That clangs and flashes for a drowning man.<br /><br />Dante Gabriel Rossetti<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-lxii-the-soul-s-sphere/
