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.