XI
On Turner's Polyphemus
Painter of day, let my dark spirit fly
Past the Trinacrian Sound, to gaze upon
The deathless horses of Hyperion
Driven up fiery stairs tumultuously:
To see once more the Achaian prows glide by,
Odysseus in his burnished galleon,
Nereides that sing him swiftly on,
And baffled Cyclops fading in the sky.
Master, you paint the passion of the Earth,
The faint victorious music of her birth,
The splendour of things lost and things grown old;
And show us song new-wrought with ardent might
Of strong-winged morning and of sure delight,
Of hyacinthine mist, and shining gold.
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