AtLast_[07]

Echo on the sound.

Everything of God or man In awe, The artist's hand.

But tempests surge to break the still Blackened typhoons wielding.

Nothing rises to this will Unless of art unyielding

Thus I see my nature's turn Of maelstrom's lightening burned.

When placid coves of fair And moving beauty hold this eye, And nothing breathes And nothing stirs

I know the hand is hers.