O painter of those far-off, golden days!
When life was over and your hand was still,
When no more at the bidding of your will
A picture grew, when neither blame nor praise
Could move you, did your beauty-loving eyes,
Opening at last within the City's walls,
Behold the dreamed-of Lamb, the Light that falls
Upon the hills and dales of Paradise?
And if you saw them, did their beauty seem
A least part of the glory of your dream?
Were the Eternal City's slopes so fair
With springing flowers? Did the heavenly air
Pulse with the music of an angel band
That ever round the Lamb adoring stand?