Last came, and last did go, / The Pilot of the Galilean lake, / Two massy keys he bore, of metals twain, / (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain).
Heaven open'd wide Her ever during gates, harmonious sound, On golden hinges moving.
The leaf was darkish, and had prickles on it, But in another country, as he said, Bore a bright golden flow'r, but not in this soil; Unknown, and like esteem'd, and the dull swain Treads on it daily with his clouted shoon.
See golden days, fruitful of golden deeds, With joy and love triumphing.
Him that yon soars on golden wing, guiding the fiery-wheelèd throne, the Cherub Contemplation.
Yet some there be that by due steps aspire To lay their just hands on that golden key That opes the palace of Eternity.
O welcome pure-eyed Faith, white-handed Hope, / Thou hovering angel girt with golden wings.
A crown, golden in show is but a wreath of thorns.