And her wild heart beleagured of deep peace,

And heart and soul surrendered unto sleep.—

Like perfect sculpture in the moon she lies,

Its pallor on her through heraldic panes

Of one tall casement's gulèd quarterings.—

Beside her couch, an antique table, weighed

With gold and crystal; here, a carven chair,

Whereon her raiment,—that suggests sweet curves

Of shapely beauty,—bearing her limbs' impress,

Is richly laid: and, near the chair, a glass,

An oval mirror framed in ebony:

And, dim and deep,—investing all the room

With ghostly life of woven women and men,

And strange fantastic gloom, where shadows live,—

Dark tapestry,—which in the gusts—that twinge

A grotesque cresset's slender star of light—

Seems moved of cautious hands, assassin-like,

That wait the hour.

She alone, deep-haired

As rosy dawn, and whiter than a rose,

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