Ii

Art thou an Angel—speak, Stupendous Cloud that comest? What wrath on whom to wreak? Redeemest thou, or doomest?

Thine eyes are of the dead; A flame within thy breast Thy giant wings outspread, Like Death’s, upon the west

Thy lifted locks of hair Are flames of fluttering fire; Thy countenance, of Despair Made mad with inner ire.