III

O latest-born and loveliest vision far

      Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy!

Fairer than Phœbe's sapphire-region'd star,

      Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky;

Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,

                        Nor altar heap'd with flowers;

Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan

                        Upon the midnight hours;31

No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet

      From chain-swung censer teeming;

No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat

      Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.