Yet when some sudden old-world mystery

Of passion fired my brain,

Thy shape hath flashed upon me like no dream,

Wandering with scented curls that heaped the breeze,

Or by the hollow of some reeded stream

Sitting waist-deep in white anemones;

And even as I glimpsed thee thou wert gone,

A dream for mortal eyes too proudly coy,

Yet in thy place for subtle thought's employ

The golden magic clung, a light that shone

And filled me with thy joy.

[24]

Before me like a mist that streamed and fell

All names and shapes of antique beauty passed

In garlanded procession with the swell

Of flutes between the beechen stems; and last,

I saw the Arcadian valley, the loved wood,

Alpheus stream divine, the sighing shore,

And through the cool green glades, awake once more,

Psyche, the white-limbed goddess, still pursued,

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