Xviii

--O Baths of Caracalla, arches clad In such transcendent rhapsodies of green That one might guess the sprites of spring were glad For your majestic ruin, yours the scene, The illuminating air of sense and thought; And yours the enchanted light, O skies of Rome, Where the giant vision into form was wrought; Beneath your blazing dome The intensest song our language ever knew Beat up exhaustless to the blinding blue!--