Sonnet Lxii: The Soul's Sphere

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