the gold brow plumbs the blue. the diver sun—slow dived from noon—goes down; my soul mounts up! she wearies with her endless hill. is, then, the crown too heavy that i wear? this iron crown of lombardy. yet is it bright with many a gem; i the wearer, see not its far flashings; but darkly feel that i wear that, that dazzlingly confounds. ’tis iron—that i know—not gold. ’tis split, too—that i feel; the jagged edge galls me so, my brain seems to beat against the solid metal; aye, steel skull, mine; the sort that needs no helmet in the most brain-battering fight!