A Sunset Fancy.

Wide in the west, a lake Of flame that seems to shake As if the Midgard snake Deep down did breathe: An isle of purple glow, Where rosy rivers flow Down peaks of cloudy snow With fire beneath. And there the Tower-of-Night, With windows all a-light, Frowns on a burning height; Wherein she sleeps,— Young through the years of doom,— Veiled with her hair's gold gloom, The pale Valkyrie whom Enchantment keeps.