Yet even her tyranny had such a grace, The women pardoned all, except her face.

And to his eye There was but one beloved face on earth, And that was shining on him.

And her face so fair Stirr'd with her dream, as rose-leaves with the air.

And dreams in their development have breath, And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy; They have a weight upon our waking thoughts, They take a weight from off our waking toils, They do divide our being.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.

Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow Bright with intelligence, and fair and smooth; Her eyebrow's shape was like the aerial bow, Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth, Mounting, at times, to a transparent glow, As if her veins ran lightning.